The Devil's Assassin
by themodernteen
Summary: Sherlock is called to solve a highly confidential kidnapping case of British Parliament members. When he is forced to work with Detective Holland Butler, he begrudgingly teams up to solve the mystery. But Sherlock is kidnapped & Butler, Watson, and Lestrade must race to solve the case before it's too late for Sherlock. Can Scotland Yard and John do it without the famous detective?
1. Chapter 1

A sequel to my first Sherlock story, "the Computer Criminal" due to popular demand (contains some references) so go check it out if you haven't! I'll try to update as soon as I can, but I'm thankful to my faithful followers! Enjoy!

"And here we are," John announced as he pressed the "enter" key and the last post of his newest blog released onto the website.

"A little bit of food for the starving children?" Sherlock raised a presumptive brow as he referred to John's fans waiting for him to post a new installment on his website of their adventures together.

"Sherlock, it took me two whole months to write that one," John gently closed the cool screen of his laptop, "you should be grateful."

"Grateful!" the detective sneered,"For what?

"For actually bringing us business," John laughed bitterly, "for getting us positive popularity, for showing people that there is someone out there who can actually solve the unsolvable ones."

"True, but they certainly don't provide much help," he sniffed as he walked into the kitchen.

"Sherlock, the Computer Criminal case was one of the biggest of our careers," John stood in the doorway.

He didn't say anything, just snorted with discontent.

John sighed, he knew Sherlock didn't like to talk about it. Ever since Gerald Price the murderous computer genius had targeted him personally along with his friends, there was a glowing hate in his eyes.

"Any new clients?"

Sherlock sipped his tea and walked back into the living room. He threw a disorganized group of papers bound together by a paper clip on the floor in front of John.

"Just a few," he shrugged.

"Sherlock, there must be a hundred in this stack," John tutted as he sighed and reached down to pick them up.

"Oh, John, they're all rubbish," he had a look of distaste on his face, " 'Mr. Holmes, please help me find my wedding ring, I think it was stolen,' 'Sherlock Holmes, I'm in need of a detective for my bank account fraud,' 'Investigative team to find missing boyfriend,' so on and so forth," he flopped down on the couch, "it's a waste of my time and talent," he took another sip begrudgingly.

"Stop whining, you love cases," John sat on his designated chair and faced his friend.

"I love cases, John, cases-not jokes."

"These people don't find them as jokes."

"Well, those people don't have IQ's above 50," the detective snapped.

"Wow," John looked at Sherlock and shook his head slightly, "someone is testy today, isn't she?"

"Shut up," he growled as he raised the teacup to his lips once more.

John laughed under his breath and opened the paper that was resting on the table next to his armchair. There wasn't anything particularly interesting going on ever since the Computer Criminal case. "Siege at Scotland Yard" was printed in large bold letters on the cover of multiple issues after the detective team along with Andersen, Detective Inspector Lestrade, and Donovan had been trapped in the building for hours at the hands of a killer.

"What's it say?" Sherlock looked at John with a bored expression. He knew Holmes didn't really care, he just wanted to occupy himself.

"Just the usual," John sifted through the pages for an interesting article, "nothing too exciting."

"Ah," Sherlock smiled, "it's a comforting feeling to know that the 'usual' for John Watson the Soldier has now become boring. I've taught you so well."

"Have not!"

"Face it, Watson, your'e becoming more and more like me," the detective's eyes danced with amusement.

"You just keep sipping your tea, will you?" Watson gave him a side eye, "Before I have a crack at you."

"You could try," his eyes held the origins of a challenge.

They both cocked their heads at an excitingly familiar sound.

"Footsteps are quick," Sherlock observed, "car door shut hard, front door opened roughly-"

"It could only mean one thing," John agreed.

Both of them smiled in anticipation, "Client."

Sherlock and John flew out of their seats and into action. Holmes ran to the kitchen and dropped his teacup roughly into the sink. John flinched but did his work as he moved the chairs in order and gathered all the excess junk from the desk and threw it in his room. Sherlock was throwing his experimental objects in the fridge. Anything ranging from fingers, eyeballs, tongues, and toes went in, and he ran both hands through his curly hair. John was shrugging off his shirt and slipping on formal shoes and a button-down on himself. The consulting detective sprinted upstairs to his room and reappeared more refined, without his blue robe and bare feet. A strong cologne scent filled the flat and it looked unnaturally clean as a knock came at the door.

"Come in," John called and the latch turned.

Sherlock made every mental detail of the man as he walked through the doorway. He was tall, maybe 6'2", middle-aged around 45 judging by the dark hair with gray flecks, his eyes had heavy circles around them that seemed imprinted into his flesh which suggested he worked late nights. His eyes had been red-ringed from crying and his nose was stuffy from sniffling. Judging by the wrinkles around his eyes, on his forehead, and shaping his mouth, he had a long stressful job that taxed him most of the day. That was just the start.

'Ello," he spoke in a natural London boy accent, he's a local. But his tone was sad and sorrowful, "Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson, I presume?"

"Yes, you've come to the right place," John was hospitable as ever as he welcomed the man inside.

"I-I have a case for you," his eyebrows furrowed in distress and he wiped his face with his sleeve.

"Why else would you be here?" Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"Y-yes, of course," the man nodded but John shot Holmes a glare, "may I sit?"

"Please," Watson went and sat at his own accustomed chair while Sherlock did the same.

"Begin," the detective's fingers were steepled under his chin. He was excited for this new case, finally something to liven up his life a little.

"Well, yesterday, I-I was walking home from work on King's Road-"

"Where do you work?" Sherlock interrupted.

"At the butcher, o-on the Vale," he stammered, "I take the same route everyday. It wasn't too late, so thought I'd meet up with my friend, Laura-"

"What time was it exactly?"

"I-I don't know, sir-"

"Guess."

"Um," the man scratched his head, "it had to be around 8:25 PM, sir."

Sherlock nodded. The man started off blandly, no surprises just his story, but continued, "I-I was walking by her flat when I noticed all the light's off. It was dark, strange, because she-she likes to stay up late, you see."

"How late does she usually stay up till?"

"I-I'd have to say around 1:00 in the morning, sir, on a good day."

"Continue," Sherlock instructed, "and at a quicker pace, if you could." John rolled his eyes.

"R-right, so I went over to see if she was okay, if she needed anything," at this, his voice started to waver and tears stung his eyes, "I went for the door and it was locked, so I went to the window to see if anyone was home. It had been raining earlier, it was hard to see, y-you know how it is winter time."

"What was your degree of visibility?"

"Well, the glass was all fogged up, so I wiped it off with my sleeve. It was slippery, about 80%?"

"Keep going.'

"W-well, sure enough," his voice choked up, "there she was, lying on the floor, blood everywhere. She was killed, I'm sure of it!" he wailed, and brought his hands up to cover his face as he sobbed, "I-I-"

"Stop," Sherlock's eyes were closed.

"Holmes, he isn't done yet," Watson scolded him, this man was obviously distressed, "I'm sorry, sir, please continue-"

"No, John," the detective opened his eyes and stood, "he doesn't need to."

"I'm sorry?" the army doctor looked at him skeptically, "Why not?"

"Because, I know who her killer is," his eyes remained closed.

"What?" John's eyes grew wide and he looked at the client who was equally terrified and shocked, tears still streaming down his cheeks, "Come here a minute, Holmes," John walked into the kitchen and Sherlock begrudgingly followed, eyeing the client as he walked.

"What is it, Watson?" he demanded, angrily. He hated interruptions.  
"Sherlock, that man just saw his friend's murdered corpse, and you think it's okay to blatantly announce who the killer is while he's still grieving?! At least give him a little time to process, or let him finish before you shatter him completely!"

"Yes, John, but you see-"

"No, no, absolutely, not! This is pushing it now, Holmes, you need to have some more respect for the clients!"

"But, Watson, you don't understand-"

"Understand? This isn't a matter of understanding! It's a matter of you realizing that these people aren't all like you, they don't all have this tough, emotionless exterior like you."

"Shut up, John!" Sherlock shouted and Watson silenced from shock, "The reason I stopped him is because he's the murderer."

"What?" Watson took a double take, terror and shock in his eyes, "It can't be! That man in there is falling apart just talking about it!"

"It is, Watson," Sherlock nodded, "he put a very convincing show on, I must say, the man should've been an actor-"

"No, no, Holmes!" John shook his head in growing fear and disbelief, "How-why?! What, is he doing in our living room, then!?"

"To cover it up, to make it look like it wasn't him if we brought in the case report as his detectives," Holmes explained, "it's easy to piece together, Watson, please I thought you were smarter than this."

"That's not the situation right now, Sherlock!" the gears in his head started turning, it didn't make sense, "of all people, why you, Holmes? You are the greatest detective in all of England, I mean surely he'd know better than to come to you!"

"John," Sherlock looked up and nodded to the living room. Watson turned around and gasped. The chair was empty, the whole room was empty. No client, no murderer.

"Oh, no, Mrs. Hudson!" Watson ran through the doorway and sprinted downstairs to see if their old landlady was all right, "Holmes, phone Lestrade! We need to find him!"

"Fine," he rolled his eyes and walked over to the desk where he picked up his mobile, "it's probably just a prank call, Watson, the man clearly was desperate for attention," he dialed the number for Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade anyway.

"This is Lestrade," he heard the familiar voice after a few rings.

"Graham," Sherlock spoke.

"Yes, hello, Sherlock," Lestrade sounded annoyed, _It's Greg._ There was no point in correcting him.

"I need to report a murderer," his voice slighlty wavered in laughter and amusement at the thought of it. He was calling up Lestrade on a fluke case.

"What?! You know, I don't even want to ask, but what the hell is going on down there, Holmes?"

"New case."

"Well, business is good, I presume. I've got a big catch here for you too tomorrow. I was just about to phone you actually, my boss sent down a new and highly classified case from up north, they want us to handle it. Come take a look, the info will arrive tomorrow."

"I guess I could make a quick stop," he watched as John entered the flat once more and locked the door firmly including all the windows.

"Good," the DI nodded, "now what's this about a murderer?" he still sounded mystified.

"Nothing, it's nothing, goodnight, Lestrade," he hung up the mobile in one swift movement.

"Did you tell him?" John panted for breath from running up and down.

"Absolutely," Sherlock lied.

"Good, now let's keep an open eye tonight, Holmes, just in case."

"Oh, yes, Watson, I'll be very vigilant," the news of Lestrade's new case buzzed through his brain all the while.

The next morning, Sherlock came downstairs early to a quizzical sight in the living room.

"John?" he gawked.

His army friend was seated right before the door, a pistol in his hands, and his eyes closed. He snored lightly and his head lolled back, but it seemed he had been sitting there all night in case the "murderer" client came back.

"I'm up," he groaned as he rolled his neck, "bloody hell…"

"What the hell are you doing?" Sherlock's eyebrows were furrowed in confusion. People were so mystifying these days.

"I thought he might come back," John stretched as he sat up and he holstered his weapon, "I wanted to make sure we were safe."

"And you were doing an excellent job, dear Watson, top of the notch."

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock smiled with amusement as his friend's silver hair was all in patches and he was wearing the wrinkled clothes from yesterday.

"Quick, get changed, Lestrade has a big one for us today."

"Lestrade? What about yesterday's client? He could still be lingering around," John looked out the windows instinctively, his army senses alive.

"Don't worry about him, he's no threat."

"Are you sure? Sherlock, you said it yourself, the man is a mur-"

"A prank caller, Watson, a man low enough to drag his self down to our flat and waste our time for someone to give him the attention he yearns. It's clear in the facts, John."

"Prove it," John poured himself a well-deserved cup of tea. He had been skeptical of the drink ever since the Computer Criminal case, but right now he didn't care if it was poisoned or not. He drank it fervently.

"He said that he worked at a butcher shop on the Vale," the detective boasted proudly, "but his hands were immaculate and polished. A butcher has blood trailings underneath his fingers and scars from hacking meat all day long. This man's hands were glossed and taken care of, it was unusual because a butcher doesn't mind getting blood and dirt on him, it's part of the job. This man, however, seemed oddly refined and cleaned up for someone who works around with animal entrails all day," Sherlock thought about his good appearance.

"Well, maybe he just cleaned up since last night, Sherlock?"

"Did you see his performance? The man was trying to sell us his lugubrious grief, but someone with that much lament and mourning wouldn't have time to shower, pick up a nicely pressed suit, comb his hair, and clean his nails before coming here. The man would've called the cops, brought in for a questioning or a statement, and stay at the police office half the night. He's here early enough, so it seems that he wouldn't have time to go home and prepare," John was slowly becoming convinced. His shoulders became more relaxed.

"And finally," the detective concluded, "in London wintertime, condensation forms on the inside of windows, not the outside. So there's no possibility, I quote, 'hard to see' from the outside because of the glass fogging up. He claims to have wiped it off with his sleeve to see her corpse, but there should be no condensation there in the first place if he was outside."

"Wow," John breathed in amazmdng, "Sherlock, that-that was incredible.

"Well, don't flatter yourself," Sherlock was dressed in a navy blue button-down, ironed perfectly, with black pants and blazer that made him look crisp and sharp. His hair was neat-as neat as it could be-and his shoes were polished, "quickly now, Lestrade's case is waiting."

"What's the case about?"

"I'll know as soon as you, and I want to know now, so hurry up and get changed. No time to waste," Sherlock floundered about the flat, waiting in barely contained anticipation to leave to Scotland Yard.

"Oh, all right," John grumbled, "I'll be down in ten minutes."

"Make it five," Holmes flapped open the morning paper and seated himself in his chair.

It was exactly 8 minutes and 17 seconds later that John reappeared on the steps. He looked like his usual self in a light orange button-down and his brown aviator jacket. His hair was neatly combed and a sharp cologne radiated off of him. His pants were nicely pressed and Holmes knew that behind his belt was his famous pistol.

"Off we go," Sherlock sped to the door and swung his coat on his shoulders. He followed the quick detective down the stairs as they waved a goodbye to Mrs. Hudson and stepped into the street.

Chapter 2 will be released soon! Leave a review/follow/favorite!

I don't own anything related to BBC or Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

**Tensions are rising for the detective team! Please keep reading, I promise you'll enjoy! Leave me a review with some suggestions!**

Sherlock quickly waved down a cab and jumped inside; John followed, his senses heightening. The detective whipped out his mobile customarily and began typing at rapid fire speed. The vehicle maneuvered it's way through the traffic-striken London streets and wove its way to Scotland Yard. Sherlock threw a bill at him and hopped out, breathing in the fresh air that promised a new case on the cloudy morning.

"Apparently, this case is highly confidential," Sherlock muttered to John as he met his pace, "we need all our wits about us."

"Like usual, Holmes, when do you ever lose your wit?"

"Good question," he smiled as they were suddenly stopped at a security checkpoint. Many officers in blue and black uniforms crowded around a conveyer belt that checked your bags and had monitors and officers to check you. They saw the approaching and unsuspecting pair and ordered them to come forward roughly to pat them down.

"What's this?" Holmes argued as he stepped away from the officer, "Get your hands off me."

"Sir, you're resisting an officer, I can arrest you if you don't comply," the man warned, an excited gleam in his eyes. A few more officers came to join him in case the lean, tall, and strong detective needed to be taken down.

"Sherlock-" John was harshly spun around and patted down by two other officers, "just do what they say."

"Absolutely, not! I demand to speak to Detective Inspector Lestrade," he stepped away farther from the advancing officer, but stood tall.

"Sir-"

"Leave them alone," they heard the deep voice of the DI approaching from down the hall, "they're with me."

"Detective Inspector," the officer nodded to him nervously and stepped back from the detective, slowly taking his hand off his baton, "Sir, these two were resisting the checkpoint."

Watson was pushed back towards Sherlock and he glared at the two officers that harshly scanned him. Sherlock's eyes were unreadable but his jaw was set and his demeanor guarded.

"They're here on my orders, officers."

"Regulations are regulations, Detective Inspector, even for your guests," the officer smiled in satisfaction as he approached Sherlock again, "arms out."

Begrudgingly, the consulting detective raised his long arms as two officers came forth and patted down his body in search of any illicit materials. They removed his mobile, that was all, "You'll receive this when you exit the building."

"Is this necessary?" Greg rolled his eyes as they did a second pat just to annoy the detectives.

"All clear," the officer winked at Sherlock and let him pass. Holmes gave him a glare so fierce and hard that it could've scared a child. He walked up to Lestrade and Watson who were waiting for him.

"Security checks, Lestrade?" John gaped, "What's going on here?"

"It's the new case," the DI sighed, "highly confidential, you need special access to enter the Yard now."

"And why confiscate my mobile?" Sherlock grumbled, but he knew the answer.

"In case you take any photographs or call or text another person about the details of the case," Lestrade halted in the hallway and faced the two, "This is extremely classified, I need your full attention and cooperation," he gave Sherlock a side glance.

"Understood," John nodded.

"Holmes?" Greg looked at him.

"Yes."

"Okay, let's keep moving," he continued his walk, "this place is crawling with government officers and what not. Everyone has been on their toes lately, the Coats claim they're here for "surveillance" but I think it's to ensure our success on this case."

"Did you say 'Coats'?" John asked Lestrade.

"Oh, yeah," Lestrade nodded, "a name made by some of the Yard staff for the government officers, they all wear these standard issued black coats so it's easy to tell them apart from our employees. I think it was Andersen that coined it."

Holmes exhaled loudly and rolled his eyes, "Of course it was."

"Full cooperation, Sherlock," Greg reminded as he and the detective pair approached a doorway, "here we are."

When the DI walked through the doorway with Sherlock and John, they were met with a flurry of noise, papers, and clamoring detectives. They had never seen the Yard this busy and disorganized before. Usually, it was a quiet and intense scene where detectives and officers went to work to crack these difficult cases and now it was like Wall Street in the 1920s with letters gliding through the air, phones ringing, people shouting, and a fluster they weren't used to. It was a strange sight for John and Sherlock after the siege at the Yard with Gerald Price their captor. Construction had repaired the damage done to the building so fast that it seemed the accident didn't even happen. It was so fresh and so new and the faces were unfamiliar that it didn't seem like the same building they once new, it maybe never would be again.

"Holmes?" Watson nudged him as he was staring blankly at the newly repaired walls, it still had the smell of fresh plaster and wood, "Let's go."

He followed the army doctor past the papers and scrambling detectives and he noticed the "Coats" as spiffy looking government officials with stiff backs and black suits. They wove towards DI Lestrade's office were it was, hopefully, quieter. The trio marched together like a military convoy and finally battled the doors open before closing them sharply behind.

"Greg, things are getting wild out there," Watson breathed.

"It's the Coats, I'm telling you, the whole Yard is fired up. But business is getting done at a quicker pace so I guess their presence isn't all bad."

"Well, what sort of case could attract such unwanted attention from greedy, self-centered, idiots like-" Sherlock made eye contact with John and trailed off. The army doctor was shaking his head at him urgently in a "don't speak manner". Their was obviously someone standing behind him, he heard him clear his throat. To avoid the awkward confrontation, Holmes abruptly turned around and stepped back for a moment in surprise and shock.

The man before him was tall, dark hair with grey patches, around 45. But this time, he didn't have red-rings from crying or a stuffy nose from sniffling. It was the mysterious client from yesterday, the one the detective pinned to be the murderer in his little story. He thought if was a fluke call, a joke to get his attention, but….

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," the man had a cool smile on his face and he extended his hand. His tongue bore a Scottish accent, not the London accent from yesterday, and his eyes were alert.

Sherlock didn't hold his hand out, instead, he looked at his client before him in misunderstanding.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade nudged him and looked to John who had the same expression on his face. The strange man couldn't help himself from laughing a little but he controlled himself immediately.

"My apologies," he dipped his head and looked to the detective inspector, "right now, your friends are thinking about you arresting me on suspicion of murder."

"Murder?" Greg echoed, breathlessly.

"Yesterday, I stopped by the flat," he walked around the detective team who's eyes never left his every movements, "I presented a false case before them, to make sure that I knew what I was dealing with, and that the rumors were true."

"Rumors?" this first word Sherlock had said was a defense.

"Yes, you are quiet the celebrity, Mr. Holmes, and I expect men like us to keep our profiles low and our heads in line."

"Men like us?" the consulting detective practically spat, "Gavin, what does he mean?"

There was no bother correcting his name, but he made sure to be careful. He was treading on ice here, "Remember I asked for your full cooperation, Sherlock?  
He nodded bitterly,

"I'm Mr. Holland Butler, Mr. Holmes," he extended his hand, a smile on his face, "I'll be your partner on this case."

"I have a partner," as he growled it, John stepped forward.

"Excuse me," Mr. Butler dipped his head and corrected himself, "your additional partner assigned by the Scotland Yard Chief of Staff. I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, I guess you're stuck with me," he tried to lighten the mood with the joke and smile. Sherlock stiffened as he was forced to accept the handshake, but immediately his fingers slid out of the hand and Mr. Butler wiped it nervously against his trousers. The man was wearing a brown overcoat with black pants and shirt, but his electrifying blue eyes contrasted with the dark color scheme.

"I'm sorry, did you say the Yard Chief of Staff?" John came out of his shock and stepped up, ready to wiggle themselves out of this one.

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Watson," Holland Butler gave his hand to him as well, "sorry about the scare last night, but I'm sure Detective Inspector Lestrade mentioned our collaboration on this case, correct?"

"No," John's teeth ground, "he failed to mention that little detail."

"Oh, right," Greg scratched his hair and looked at his papers, "I'm going to let you get acquainted here, Sergeant Donovan needs me to pick up a file, anyway," he stepped out of the doorway quickly and left the three alone.

"Shall we have a seat?" Butler already walked towards the waiting chairs in Lestrade's office. He sat in the one behind the desk-the boss's chair. Sherlock growled at that.

"Tell us about yourself," John tried to make small-talk, but his heart wasn't in the mood, "How did you end up with this…opportunity to work with Sherlock and I on this case?" Good for John, he was glorifying Sherlock and himself, showing them it was a privilege to work for them.

"I've been a private detective for most of my career," Holland began, his eyes lost in thought, "families hired me locally in Scotland where I grew up, I always had a knack for solving riddles I guess," Holmes rolled his eyes, "I kept moving around to England until I began a contract with the local police for quite a few years. I must've been doing something right, because I caught the attention of the High and Mighty of the Yard and here I am," he shrugged, "yourselves?"

"Well, I was an army doctor, I came back because of a leg injury-"

"A psychosomatic leg injury," Sherlock reminded. It was one of the first things they bickered about when they met.

"Yes, psychosomatic, and Sherlock and I met from a mutual friend. Now we are flatmates," John said casually, "I helped him on a few of his cases-"

"Very minor assistance," Sherlock shrugged.

John nudged him, "More than this one would like to admit," he jabbed his finger in the detective's direction, "now I run my own clinic."

"And you still get around to, shall I say, 'assisting' when you get the opportunity?" Butler smiled genuinely.

"Um, y-yes," John said curtly. He had chosen his words wrong; "assist" was not good. Now he seemed like the minor help who just tagged along for kicks.

"Very good," Butler smiled, "and you, Mr. Holmes?

"I'm a consulting detective," Holmes answered robotically.

"Ah, some people have told me you use that quip now and again," he laughed heartily, "go on, one more time!"

"Excuse me?" Sherlock rebuffed, his back straight as a stick.

"It's funny!" he laughed, thinking that Sherlock thought it was a joke as well, "some say you don't possess a sense of humor, sir, but I think you've got some hidden under your sleeve!"

"Ah," Sherlock's jaw was clenched in silent anger, "and who told you this?"

"Oh! What was his name…?" Holland thought, "I-I think it was an Anthony fellow? No, no-oh! His name was Andersen! Quite a nice chap, works in the Laboratory downstairs, do you know him?"

"I think we should stop right there," John said cautiously, hoping Butler would understand.

"Sir?" the new detective suddenly seemed to grasp the tone of the situation.

"Enough of this!" Holmes angrily slid his char out from behind him and John stood up with his friend. Between the new discovery of Holland Butler, his trick on them last night, his insults towards Holmes, his degrading respect for him and John, it was too much, "it was stupid of Lestrade to think I need help on this case, he's constantly sending nannies down my way to check on. I've dealt with murderous killers and crooks you would never even fathom of in the worst of your imagination," he growled at Butler furiously, his voice a deadly whisper, "and you, you fool, if you find this a game then go make your 'quips' and jokes someplace else, because I'm trying to work. Otherwise, if we are working together, which I sincerely am hoping we don't, you will respect me, my opinions, my friends, and my most polite request for you to get out and leave me alone."

"Mr, Holmes," Holland's eyebrows were furrowed in regret and his voice was full of sorrow, "please, I didn't mean-"

"Shut up," his famous line came out angrily, "I don't need to hear your voice any longer, it's incessant grating has hurt our ears enough already," Sherlock's coat billowed behind him as he turned, "Watson, let's get to work," he gave a glare to the gaping detective as he slammed the door shut behind him.

 **Chapter 3 will be released soon! Please leave a review/favorite/follow!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Here we go! Chapter 3! Please review, much appreciated!**

"Lestrade sent you this," John came closer to Sherlock warily holding a thick yellow envelope, "and his apologies."

"Tell him to keep his apology," Sherlock snorted and reached for the envelope in Watson's fingers.

"You still want the case?"

"Yes, of course I want the case, John, what are you talking about?" he ripped the seal open with his fingers.

"But you'll have to work with Detective Butler," John brought the name up carefully.

"An unfortunate inconvenience," Sherlock sighed and examined the contents of the envelope like a scientist with a microscope.

"What's gotten into you?" John gaped, "You were fired up on the way home, yammering on about Butler."

"Ah," Sherlock smiled and held the package close, "beautiful."

"Beautiful? Beautiful what?"

"It's kidnappings, Watson, 4 kidnappings," Sherlock breathed serenely.

"What?" John's interest piqued, "Kidnapping of who?"

Holmes threw the photographs on the table. They were gruesome, out-of-focus images of terrified men and women. There were 4 photos, 2 female, 2 male. They had scrapes on their faces and gags across their mouths, but their hands were bound above them against a wooden pole. Each of their eyes reflected fear like a deer in headlights.

"What is this?" John shook his head.

"What does it look like, Watson? There are four kidnapping victims and Scotland Yard has appointed me to resolve it."

"But who are they?" he asked the detective, "Why would the Yard choose you?"

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, dear friend," Sherlock exhaled, "they have to be of high ranking, distinguished members of English society because of the confidentiality and their refined clothing. I need to find out their identities," Sherlock rummaged through the folder, but no ID cards were present, "They haven't given me any! How do those idiots think I can solve the case without knowing who I'm investigating?!"

"Phone your brother," Watson shrugged as he took a sip of his tea.

Holmes stiffened and turned to John slowly, "Excuse me?"

"Call your brother," after the glare he received, John added, "you always said Mycroft _is_ the British government, well I'll bet you he knows exactly who these victims are."

 _"_ But why _Mycroft?_ " he cringed, "My brother doesn't need to have any part in my investigation."

"Well, why not?" John leaned forward, "Holmes, don't you think your quarrel with your brother is a little childish? I mean your family for God's sakes!"

" _God_ had everything to do with my family and my unshakable familial bond to Mycroft," Sherlock snorted, "I can do this myself, I have other means to gain information."

Watson rolled his eyes, "The homeless network?"

"No, no, of course not," Sherlock shook his head, "they have a part later. I'm talking about the general English public."

"The public?" John did a double take, "You mean the actual people who live in England are going to help cooperate with you, a man who doesn't even want to work with another detective, on a highly confidential, absolutely classified Scotland Yard case of missing British government officials?"

"Precisely," he steepled his fingers under his chin, "go now, post it on your blog, tell the world Sherlock Holmes has a question for them, they'll eat it up."

"Holmes, this is a horrible idea, and you've had some pretty bad ones, but this definitely takes the cake."

"John, tweet it or something, I don't know how these things work," the detective opened an eye to glare at John properly, "go now, we have no time to waste!"

"Fine, but if I get a call from Lestrade, you are responsible for your actions."

Sherlock nodded, only half-listening to John's rant, as he heard the keyboard clicks of the laptop as John typed the news. He knew he was being reckless and arrogant, but he never lacked in cleverness and rationality. Holmes was trying a new approach on this kidnapper, it was a way to draw him out.

"LESTRADE!"

Greg almost spit out his coffee as he heard an unwelcoming voice come booming from outside his door. _Oh no, oh no, oh no, what did I do?_

The mahogany double doors burst open furiously to reveal an even more enraged Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard-Lestrade's superior.

"Sir," he smiled nervously, "what gives me the pleasure?"

"Save it, Lestrade," his boss's voice was like cold ice, it burned and froze you at the same time, "what the hell is the matter with you? I promoted you to Detective Inspector to keep the Yard in order and efficient, not blabber all our secret cases to the bloody public with a newspaper headline!"

The news was like a hard smack to the face, _Sherlock,_ he thought gravely.

"Sir, what's happened?" he said with strained calm, barely composing himself.

His boss slapped the latest edition of the London paper on his desk. The front cover made Greg feel dizzy with chaos and disaster. It read "Scotland Yard Investigates Kidnapping of Four Parliament Members."

"What?" he shakily stood up from his chair, "How did this happen?"  
"You tell me, Detective Inspector," his boss snarled, "you have been keeping such good tabs on this case that I thought I could entrust this to you. But I thought wrong," his voice was a sinister whisper.

"No, sir, please," Lestrade was already pulling his mobile from his pocket, "let me handle this, I will clear it up immediately."

"Clear what up, Lestrade?" he scoffed, "Half of England has already seen this, and you think you can contain it now? You'll just be adding fuel to the fire," his boss shook his head, "I'm cutting from your salary, Greg, and you will be the one confronting my superior officers about this. Good luck," he chuckled evilly as he stalked out of the room. When the door closed, Greg threw his mobile to the desk and pushed his papers off in anger.

"SHERLOCK!" he yelled in fury, _how could he do this?!_

He wanted to have a nice, long chat with the consulting detective, but first he needed to go deal with the Coats. Greg sighed and picked up the newspaper, preparing for the battle of a lifetime.

Watson watched from the kitchen as he dried the dishes and saw Sherlock hovering back and forth across the living room, his papers in hand. Ever since his new blog update, he had gotten thousands of eagerly waiting replies. Sherlock made John post the 4 pictures of the missing British officials and the word "Investigating kidnapping. Identify?" below. Answers came flooding in with eager fans responding and asking questions of Sherlock's new big case. This morning, a chill ran down his spine as Mrs. Hudson placed the paper next to his morning tea and in big bold letters was: "Scotland Yard Investigates Kidnapping of Four Parliament Members." He definitely was going to get an earful from Greg Lestrade later, but Sherlock always had a plan and he couldn't doubt that.

They had gotten the replies they needed, however. The two women's names were Jenny Taylor and Abigail Scott, while the two men were Charlie Williams and Michael Turner. They were each kidnapped within the month, but they had only gotten proof of life from the photos sent a few days ago. That's when the full blown investigation happened with Coats running all over the Yard and Sherlock forced to pair up.

"John," Holmes spoke for the first time in hours since working, "I'm going out."

"Where are you going?"

"Somewhere," he dropped his teacup and saucer in the sink where John was washing.

"Well, when will you be back?"

"Sometime," the detective shrugged on his coat.

"Holmes," John turned off the water and wiped his hands, "you need to give me something more."

"Oh, fine," the detective rolled his eyes, "I'm going to go see someone for some information."

"Who?"

"You don't know him."

"It's Mycroft, isn't it?"

"No."

John smiled and walked back to the sink, "Tell your brother I say hi, Sherlock."

Holmes rolled his eyes, grabbed his mobile, and walked out the door.

The former army doctor was in silence as the water gurgled down the drain and the plates clattered as he set them to dry. The whole flat was a different place without Sherlock and his bustling papers and attitude. John was curious about these kidnappings. Why would someone kidnap 4 Parliament members? Why so quickly? Would they survive? Would there be a ransom? Questions ran through John's head as he walked over to the desk in the living room to scope the evidence gathered by Sherlock. There were the four photos, an overheated laptop on John's blog page with the thousands of replies, a map of London, newspaper clippings, and their residences. On the map, Holmes circled their last sighting spots, their flats, and a square around the Parliament building.

It didn't make sense, but as long as Sherlock could understand it. It was a quiet evening, and with Sherlock gone it would be uneventful. The sky was dark and the air was chilly. Dinner was served and eaten and now it was time for his tea before bed. The telly wouldn't have anything interesting except Sherlock's announcement, so would the paper. John poured himself a steaming cup and sat at his chair. His back faced the chipped green front door and the tea was warm in his hands on the cold night. Watson's body ached and he felt his eyes start to close.

He didn't know how long he was there or how much time had passed, but John woke up from a hand covering his mouth and a sharp point poking his stomach. His eyes went wide and his body tensed, the teacup spilling from his fingers. His breath hitched and he looked down to see the hand was black and gloved.

"Don't speak," he heard a thick Welsh accent speak to him, "or you're a goner."

John gulped, indicating he wouldn't make a sound.

The hand released from his mouth but the point dug dangerously into his abdomen.

"What do you want?" John asked carefully.

"Did I say you could speak!" the stranger sliced a small gash against his cheek in one fast fluid motion. John stayed quiet as the intruder continued, "Who told you to post that page on your blog?"

"No one," Watson gulped, "it was of my own volition."

"You lie," the point traveled to his neck now, the edge slicing into him painfully, "be honest, or you will bleed out on this floor in less than a minute."

"I'm telling you the truth," John would never sell out Sherlock, "it was me."

"You have some deep loyalty for your friend Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Watson," the man purred, "it's admirable, but deadly in your case."

"What do you want?" he repeated.

"To know where you got this information from."

"So you can kill half of Scotland Yard?" John huffed, "because trust me, I went through that about a month ago," his thoughts traveled back to the Computer Criminal.

"Enough!" the trespasser hissed, "you will not post another thing on your blog page or any page for that matter, all your information will be filtered by me, understand?"

"Not a chance."

"Your funeral."

"So be it," John said proudly, hoping Holmes and Mrs. Hudson we're okay, "you can't daunt me."

"No, but I can hurt you."

"I went through the war, nothing is more painful than that."

"But your friends haven't."

John gulped and the man laughed, "Ah, so there it is, your weakness. I will slice your friends apart unless you heed my warning and stay away from this case, far away."

"Do you know if there are any others on this case?" John asked hesitantly. He knew about Holmes, but maybe not Lestrade and Butler.

"If not, I will found out soon enough," the blade was still pressing against his neck, "tell Mr. Holmes to drop my case and move on. My work is almost finished and it won't be too long now."

"Too long till what?"

"Till this world truly has sight," the man said, his voice sounded far away.

"Oh, great, it's one of you guys again, huh," John tried to make the intruder feel at a disadvantage, "the Yard has dealt with you lot before, they will stop you again."

"Not before Parliament falls," he could practically hear the smile in the man's voice, "and the people are in mass hysteria."

"We'll recover, you can't stop us."

"But I can scare you. All of the people who helped you with your blog page will be expecting bombs dropping from the sky if they continue."

"Please, no!"

"Shut up!" the blade choked John, "I've been here too long, now, remember what I said or else."

Watson sighed heavily and puffed out his chest, "Good luck against Sherlock, he's like a bloodhound. He won't stop-"

John heard a snarl from behind him and the blade go from his neck like lightning to his stomach. The blade pressed through his flesh and deep inside, the sharp edge turning. The hand was at his mouth again and the dagger slid out of him slowly, painfully. He gasped for air and in pain as he fell to the floor, blood staining his clothes and the ground rapidly. By the time John looked up, his eyes hazy, the figure's back was turned to him and he was in all black.

"Sh-Sherlock will find you," he gasped on the floor, writhing in agony, "he's going to stop you."

"He can try," the trespasser smiled, wiped John's blood on his sleeve, and stepped out quietly like a shadow.

 **Chapter 4 will be released soon!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey, everyone, I hope your liking what your reading! It's going to get super intense in the next few chapters ever since John's been attacked and Sherlock has a bunch of pressure on his shoulders. Anyway, share some love and leave a review/favorite/follow, I'd love to hear what you think!**

It was hours later that night, Holmes was walking back from his meeting with his brother Mycroft, their conversation replaying in his head. The streets were empty, the air was chilly, and Sherlock's hair ruffled in the slight wind. He felt every part of him alive with excitement, he couldn't wait to tell John about his finds.

"Don't be greedy," Mycroft warned him, sliding the newspaper issue towards Holmes across the table.

"I'm being strategic," he rebuked.

"No, you're being arrogant and sloppy," his brother chastised him in the voice he used like when the were children, "you can't keep thinking that this is the right idea, Sherlock, it's not. You are attracting negative attention to yourself that can't result in good. If half of London has seen this, then you'd best be sure your kidnapper has."

"I know what I'm doing, Mycroft, besides I didn't come here to get a lesson from you," his gaze was cold, "I wanted information on my victims."

"Well, why don't you ask the British public once again?" Mycroft's mocking tone enraged Holmes as he flipped open the newspaper, "Since you seem so fond of them."

"Mycroft," Sherlock exhaled slowly, trying to regain composure. The next word lodged in his throat hard, he could barely say it, "Please."

"A tide has turned in you, Sherlock," his brother's eyes twinkled with amusement, "who knew you were so mannered? Well, then, what do you want to know?" he said after moment's hesitation.

"The Yard is hardly giving me any data," Sherlock started, "are the victims sworn to the House of Commons or House of Lords?"

"House of Lords. All of them."

"Hmm," the detective began to think, "did they share any common interests in any Parliament gatherings?"

"Sherlock, do you expect me to have memorized the dialogue of every member of Parliament from every meeting?" his brother scoffed.

"Actually, yes."

"Hmm," Mycroft shifted in his seat, "well, you assumed correctly. I'd have to say that they had similar opinions in economic standpoint, but honestly, Sherlock, when do the members of Parliament ever _agree_ on something?" he flashed a mischievous smile.

"True, Mycroft," Sherlock chuckled a little on that one, "but there must've been a reason why these four were taken. Why these four in particular? Did they have the same birth month? Astrological sign? Favorite coffee shop? It's baffling, I can't connect without the facts and Lestrade has made me pair up with another detective on a case I'm capable of handling."

"Ah," the older Holmes nodded, "so, there is the root of the problem, I see," Mycroft smiled, "you never were able to cooperate with another, Sherlock, even as children."

Holmes' eyes shone darkly, "Mycroft, not now."

"Oh, please, Sherlock," he scoffed, "you have four kidnappings on your hand and you're more worried about working temporarily with another private detective. You need to learn to be open to your surroundings, you can't continue to shut everyone out just because you don't like change. Grow up," he pounded his fist on the table and the silverware rattled, "think hard, think logically. You can't be reckless like this any longer."

Sherlock pushed the seat out from behind him, "Have one of your men leave me the files of the four victims on my desk by the morning and their records from Parliament," his voice was devoid of emotion.

"Those are confidential files, Sherlock," Mycroft tutted, also standing up, "what makes you think I can reveal those records to you?"

"Just get it done, Mycroft," he snarled, "go bore one of your own men with your lecture, rather than me. I have a whole childhood's worth of them to forget," Holmes stalked out of the room and closed the door on his brother.

The stinging conversation replayed in his head word for word. Mycroft was annoying and self-centered, but he would always be Sherlock's brother whether he liked it or not. Flat 221B was just coming up down the street and the damp air was making his skin wet. He headed to the door with the crooked knob and opened it with the key. Mrs. Hudson in Flat 221A was quiet, probably asleep at this hour, and the entire building was dark and quiet like the street. Sherlock mounted the stairs, his long legs barely making sounds apart from the occasional creak from the old wood. The lights were dim in their flat too, Watson must be sleeping; he glanced at his mobile to see the time was 2:37 AM. When Sherlock reached for the door, he froze. It was already slightly ajar.

Immediately, Sherlock came to his rapid fire senses, everything on alert. Was someone in the flat? Did John forget to lock the door? That, was unlikely and his heart was freezing at the worst thoughts. How long had he been gone for? At least 3 or 4 hours, that was enough time for anything to happen. His mind was only focused on one thing: John's safety. Holmes took a deep breath and braced himself as he jumped into the flat, coat billowing behind him.

The room was dark so it was hard to adjust. The kitchen was empty from what he could see from the outlines, but his heart was beating at a million miles a minute. Blood pumped throughout his body along with adrenaline as he lunged for the lights and they flickered on. On the floor, next to his chair was the motionless body of John Watson.

"John!" Sherlock surged forward like a tidal wave as he knelt by his friend. He turned his body around to see that the army doctor's eyes were closed, his face was ashen and pale, and the carpet along with his clothes were sticky with partly fresh blood.

Mrs. Hudson!" Holmes cried as he pressed two fingers under his friend's neck to feel for a pulse, "Come quickly!"

Sherlock felt his entire body buzzing with electric like alertness. He didn't know what to do, he couldn't imagine that John was here right now possibly dead. How long had he been here? What happened to him? It didn't matter, as long as there was a pulse.

And it was faint. _Ba-boom. Ba-boom._

He practically went limp with relief, his shoulders relaxed as the tension flooded out of them. He ripped the shirt buttons from his friend's shirt off and his eyes immediately focused on the source of a wound sluggishly pulsing blood right on his hip. It was a small but deep penetrating stab wound, about an inch in length but the amount of blood loss was even more alarming.

"Mrs. Hudson!" It was no use, the woman must've been sleeping with her ear muffs in by the volume Sherlock was yelling. He placed both palms against John's wound and the man didn't even flinch which worried him even more. He could die. John Watson could actually die.

Holmes placed his mobile under his ear and supported it with his shoulder as the number dialed. Molly Hooper didn't pick up. With blood-stained fingertips, he dialed his brother Mycroft Holmes. No answer, probably upset at him still or making a point. Sally Donovan, no answer. He even resorted to calling Phillip Andersen, but no answer there either. He didn't want to go downstairs to get Hudson, he couldn't leave John alone any longer. Finally, he dialed Lestrade's number. Sherlock knew the DI didn't want to speak to him at the moment and he knew that a good verbal beating would come out of it, but what was he to do? The number dialed and he heard the ringing chimes as the anticipation in him grew more and more.

"Pick up, Lestrade, pick up," he muttered under his breath in frustration.

Greg was sitting in front of the telly, a bottle of whiskey on the table and an empty glass in hand. It was late, but after dealing with the mob of Coats sent his way by Sherlock, he deserved a little relaxation. It took a miracle after the yelling he took from superior officers with scowling faces and stinging threats. Holmes was a liability at this point, and Greg placed his career on the line for that bastard once again. The consulting detective could only work on the case if he was paired with detective Holland Butler. The DI knew Sherlock would hate this idea, but whether he liked it or not he would deal with it. The minute he saw or heard from Holmes again, he was going to give him a piece of his mind. The amount of anger and fury inside him would be released after countless Board Meetings discussing his ranking as Detective Inspector.

The piercing ringing of his phone interrupted his thoughts and he reached over across the table. _Speak of the Devil,_ he thought bitterly. The caller ID read Sherlock Holmes. It was late, why was the detective awake? At this point, Greg didn't care he was too wound up to notice.

He took a deep, rattling breath, topped off his empty glass, and answered the call on the last ring, "Sh-"

"Lestrade!"

Immediately, Greg's thoughts of anger and shouting dissipated. For the first time in his life, he heard something new in Sherlock's tone, something rarely ever associated with the man himself. It was fear.

"Lestrade, are you there?!"  
"Sherlock?" he asked tentatively, "What's going on?"

"Quick, I need an ambulance! 221B Baker, it's John!"

"John?" Greg dropped the glass from his hands and it spilled to the floor, "what's happened?"

"I was out!" he heard the fluster and rapid anxiety in the detective's voice, "When I returned, the flat was broken into and John was attacked! He's been stabbed, Greg," the first time Sherlock ever said his name correctly, "I think I'm losing him!"

"Holmes, why didn't you call the ambulance first?!"

"Because this is a crime scene, Lestrade!" he could practically feel the frustration in Sherlock, "Bring your men, get down here, and bring an ambulance right now!"

"Okay, okay, I'm on my way," he ran to the door and grabbed his coat, "an ambulance will be at the flat in a few minutes."

"Greg, what do I do?" he heard desperation now, "I've got my hands on the wound, what do I do? He's the doctor, I'm not!"

"Well, go to your Mind Palace, Sherlock, it'll calm you down!" Greg was sprinting to his car, worried for John _and_ for Sherlock, "Go get Mrs. Hudson!"

"I can't leave him here, Lestrade, I was gone for hours, who knew how long he was left here!"

"I just paged the ambulance, it's coming right now," he started up his car and screeched out the parking garage.

"Tell them to hurry, I'm losing him, Lestrade!"

"I've got to hang up, Sherlock," his heart tore at the thought of leaving Holmes helpless like this. The detective had an answer for anything, except what to do now and Lestrade felt like he was betraying him, "keep your hands holding pressure against the wound, and your phone on! I'll call you," he closed the phone, knowing Holmes didn't want to be alone through this mainly because he felt guilty. But, he had arrangements to make for the newest crime scene at Holmes' flat. There were speculations he had about the break in that he'd bring up to Sherlock later, but right now he dialed a new number while wondering how John was still alive.

"Andersen," he spoke quickly into the receiver, "quick, scramble Donovan and the crew meet at flat 221B Baker Street."

"Lestrade?" came the groggy reply, "It's three in the morning, what does that psychopath want now?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Andersen, John's been attacked! Now, get the team and head down there, I want everything bagged and tagged for evidence, got it?"

"Yeah, all right," he heard the reply and hung up. The Detective Inspector pressed the gas pedal down hard with his foot as he flew through the empty London streets.

Sherlock felt panic build up inside him as Lestrade hung up the phone and it fell from his ear. He had to think of something to save John or prolong the effects of the stab wound. But he was already gone for hours, what could he do now?! He had to do something, it didn't matter as long as John's life was in the balance like this, anything would do. This reminded him when Watson was kidnapped and placed in the bonfire to burn, but Sherlock got to him in time. That was using his clever wit and mind, not medical attention! What did he know about medicine?

"Think, Sherlock, think!" he yelled at himself as his hands were slippery with the blood of his best friend. His mind traveled fast to find any sort of information or data that might help him. His mind came up almost empty, there was relatively nothing he could do at this point. John might need surgery from internal bleeding, he wouldn't know!? Holmes growled in frustration and yelled for Hudson once again. After a precious moment, he heard the flat door below open.

"Hudson, come here now!" he yelled.

"What's this about now, Sherlock?" he heard the frail voice of their landlady coming up the stairs, but Sherlock was already high on adrenaline.

"Quick, I need a towel!" he yelled over his shoulder, his hair falling in his face and the

"Why, what's the-oh, my Lord!" Mrs. Hudson stopped at the doorway as she saw in dim light, John Watson stretched limp on the floor blood pooling around him and Sherlock bent over him, his face white and his blue eyes racing.

"Sherlock!"

"Mrs. Hudson, if I have to ask you one more time, get me a towel!"

She waved her hands in the air as she frantically ran in the kitchen and threw all the towels she could find high and low towards the detective. Sherlock caught hold of one and began to pack the wound as best as he could under the circumstances. His ears caught the relieving sound of sirens approaching on the near-empty Baker Street.

"Go open the door for the paramedics, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock spoke quickly and urgently as all he focused on was the beating vein on John's neck that was his only sign of life. She rushed down the stairs, her lilac night dress flowing like silk as she pulled the building door open by the crooked knob.

"Come on, John, come on," Sherlock spoke under his breath harshly, urging his friend to keep going, "you won't give up on me yet, you hear?"

The pounding of footsteps at the staircase and in the hall didn't divert Sherlock's attention as the paramedics dressed in highlighter yellow jackets and carrying a stretcher came rushing in.

"Sir, I'm going to need you to move," came the commanding voice, but Sherlock didn't move. He barely heard them. He felt if he let go of the wound, John would bleed out on the floor.

"Sir?!" came the demand.

When Holmes didn't move again, two pairs of strong hands gripped him by the arms and lifted him up. Sherlock snapped to his senses, brushing them off as three more men descended on Watson.

They lifted the towel Holmes had tried to stop the bleeding with, the fabric clinging to John's sticky clothes. Sherlock mobbed the medical responding team as they surrounded his best friend on the floor. They slipped an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose and with their latex-gloved hands, began to press on the wound.

"Is he going to be all right?" Sherlock's voice came out harshly, "is he going to die?"

"Sir, I'm going to need you to step back," one of the men said at him monotonously, but it flew over his head. Mrs. Hudson, pulled him back by his arm, but he pulled away.

"I'm coming with you," he announced as the men rapidly hoisted John on the stretcher, his blood on the floor the only reminder this wasn't a terrible dream. Sherlock followed the receding men as they ran to the waiting ambulance to rush Sherlock's wounded friend to the hospital.

"Sherlock," Hudson called from the doorway, her voice hoarse as she handed him John's jacket with his ID and wallet, "please call me when you arrive there, let me know if he's all right."

Sherlock snatched the coat from her grip, but as he turned around she leaned forward and wrapped her skinny arms around his tall form. He stood there, emotionless and unfeeling, as his worst nightmare was coming true and couldn'tt think of what to do. She was crying, he could feel the wetness against his coat and the rattling of her body against his. He sighed, knowing he had no time for this, but the tall, lean detective looked down and placed a hand on her back for a moment. He turned around, her arms letting go, and ran down the stairs to the loaded ambulance.

 **Chapter 5 will be released soon! Reviews are highly appreciated!**


	5. Chapter 5

**This one is a short chapter, but keep reading! Let me know what you think please with some reviews! They are really helpful and make me want to write some more! If not, click the follow or favorite button! Enjoy!**

The ride to the hospital was tantalizing as Sherlock was seated in the back of the ambulance next to John, helplessly watching, as Watson's stringy heartbeat beeped slowly on the monitor.

"Sir, please, step back!" that had to be the eighteenth time the man had said it, but he would have to say it another eighteen more before Sherlock listened to him.

"Is he going to be okay?" Sherlock demanded, glaring back at the medic scowling at him.

"It's unclear now, sir, they doctor will have to tell you," he answered robotically.

"Well, from what you can see, can't you tell?" Holmes began to lash out at the medic who was trying to help his friend, "You have a license, don't you?! What's the point if you can't diagnose a dead man or not!"

"Sir, please sit down!"

The detective slumped back in his seat, fuming. These idiots couldn't save a dying cat if they wanted to. He just wished that everything would be all right. This whole mess was his fault. If Sherlock hadn't tried the new approach by publicizing the case in the paper none of this would've happened. He only did it because it was a sure way to draw the killer out, he would make a move, but Sherlock never thought in his life the move would be John. Of course, it was the kidnapper, it couldn't have been anyone else. At the flat, Sherlock noticed that John's computer was smashed to bits, prohibiting him from writing in his blog most likely. John would never have sold Holmes out, that's what probably got him stabbed. Since the first day they met, Watson always was protecting Holmes. He thought back to John shooting the cabbie who was talking innocent people into suicide and countless times after.

"We're here!" the driver called and Holmes snapped back to life. His eyes refocused and the bright lights of the hospital emergency entrance flashed before him. Greg had tried calling him many times, but he didn't want to answer, didn't want to divert his attention away from John. He stepped out after John's stretcher was carefully pulled out of the ambulance doorways and he was placed on a gurney, doctors and medics swarming him like fish around a hook. They rushed him through the sliding doors of the emergency room where already an advanced and trained medical group descended on him and began to poke him with all sorts of needles, IVs, and tubes.

Sherlock's eyes never left his friend's body as white coats moved back and forth, in and out. He was standing in the entrance of the emergency room, his tall, lean form blocking most of the doorway. Nurses and doctors eyed him, they obviously knew who he was, but Holmes was too speechless to even register anything but the fact that John Watson could lose his life by his hand.

"Sir," one of the remaining paramedics that arrived at his flat approached him tentatively, like he was a time bomb, "you need to file a report with the police, I can have them here in a few minutes."

"No, no," the detective cleared his throat, straightening the front of his coat, "I've already talked to the police."

"Okay, well, please step into the hospital waiting room. I'm sure a nurse will inform you in a few minutes."

Sherlock didn't have time to wait. There were things to be done, kidnappers to catch, arrangements to make. The first thing he did was open his mobile and dial a number.

John felt like he was in a haze. There was a shooting pain that radiated through his body like fire, especially in his side. He saw blackness and bright lights all at once. There were remnants of memories that floated around in his swimming head such as a black glove, a highlighter yellow jacket, and red sirens. He couldn't feel his body too well, his entire head felt like exploding and everything was numb. There was an incessant ringing in his ears that wouldn't stop and he was gruesomely reminded of his time in the war. Grass and dirt rained down on them as bullets from machine guns ripped through earth and flesh alike. Watson remembered he was helping a fallen soldier out of the trees, his lifeless eyes staring blankly ahead when a metal bullet tore through his left shoulder and dropped him to the floor. John dragged himself through enemy lines to get back to his own soldiers, by then he felt like death itself. This pain was similar to that, one where he didn't know what was going on except a perpetual grey numbness that burned through him. Through his clouded thoughts, he heard a beeping sound, oddly like a heart monitor. It penetrated his hazy shell of a mind and brought him close to the surface of consciousness.

"What do you mean you can't tell me!?" he heard a strangely comforting voice that sounded angry, "I have a right to know!"  
"I'm sorry, sir, that's hospital policy."

"Well, whoever wrote your policy was an idiot," the voice was fuming, "I can't deal with this, I need a new nurse, a new doctor-someone that isn't a moron!"

 _Sherlock,_ John felt himself relax. At least his friend was okay.

"Sir, please calm down, your friend needs rest."

"Damn right my friend needs rest!" he heard a sharp rebuke, "and that'll happen as soon as this hospital can conform to his needs!"

"Sir, that isn't stated in his medical chart."

"To hell with the chart!"

John wasn't able to stay aware for much longer as the screaming voices slowly receded to background noise then vanished altogether. He didn't know how much longer he was out for before he felt his eyes crack slightly open a little later. His limbs felt heavy, his chest was burning, and his mind was exhausted. Everything was uncomfortably bright and white, but there was a large dark shadow that contrasted with the surroundings. It was blurry, but it was a man over six feet, with a long dark coat, a navy blue scarf, and curly black hair from what he could make out. It could only be one person, from what he could figure. His best friend, Sherlock Holmes. The detective was probably out of his mind at the moment, Sherlock was a clever man but he had no medical training. John wanted to know what had happened, what the story was, and how he got here. He was sure he was in a hospital at this point, and he felt bad for the nurses because they would have to be dealing with a worried Sherlock Holmes. He knew his friend probably felt guilty, but he wanted the detective to know it wasn't his fault.

The figure was pacing the room rapidly, his hands clasped behind his back but not looking at the bed Watson lay in. There was a new man who entered a few minutes later, wearing a brown coat, neatly styled hair, and wielding a cane. Mycroft Holmes, obviously. Sherlock's figure turned his back to his brother's in the doorway. They must've been in a fight, again. A nurse was trying to push her way past Mycroft to issue them out, but the older Holmes went forward and closed the door on her, locking it. She banged against the glass, but Sherlock walked over irritatedly and closed the blinds. The Holmes Brothers were always flamboyant in their actions. They spoke in harsh but hushed voices until, from what John could make out, Mycroft handed his younger brother a rubber-banded stack of brown files. What could it be? John wanted so badly to investigate, but he wasn't going to be able to stay awake much longer. The pain was returning rapidly once again and finally Mycroft opened the door to be greeted by a tall, buff security officer blocking the doorway brought by the nurse he closed the door on.

The older Holmes shook his head and lifted his cane against the man's chest, pushing him out of the way before sauntering out the door gracefully, like a swan. Sherlock gave one look at the bed as John's eyes began to close and followed his brother, the brown files now tucked away discreetly in his coat. He tried to give one last effort to stay awake, but his eyelids closed and he was unconscious again.

 **Chapter 5 will be released soon!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Alright, here we go! Chapter 6! Hope you are liking it and let me know if you are with a review/favorite/follow! :) enjoy**

Lestrade was in flat 221B, an investigative team occupying the apartment with him. After receiving the urgent call from Sherlock, Greg sped his way through the streets before screeching to a halt before the building. Mrs. Hudson cowered by her door as Greg went up to her, asking if she was all right. Her voice was shaky, but she was a strong woman who told Lestrade what happened as she came up the stairs to Sherlock and John's flat. From what she described, Sherlock was as "pale as a specter, but his eyes were like fire." That worried him. Holmes in this state running around after a kidnapper was dangerous not just for the criminal and himself, but from the British public in general. The DI knew that Holmes felt guilty for he was partially responsible for his friend's attack. As he came up the stairs, Andersen, Donovan, and a few other officers were already entering the flat. They stopped and stared at the empty and dark rooms at the crack of dawn. DI Lestrade and the rest of the crew couldn't miss the large blood stain that tainted the floor. It was pints of it that was no longer burgundy red like wine, but black as it dried. There was a spilled teacup on the floor that was cracked, probably from a scuffle with the intruder? That would be for the investigation to decode. Also, there were wet footprints on the floor, probably Sherlock's, as he ran to his friend. A yellow towel stained with blood was thrown on the ground, and John's laptop on the desk was smashed and broken.

"Okay," the detective inspector exhaled as they all marveled at the gruesome sight, "let's start. I want the blood sampled and analyzed, use the cotton swabs to get as much of the fresh blood you can, when we're done we take the carpet patch back to the Lab at the Yard. The footprints should be analyzed as well, see if you can secrete some of the water from the carpeting. Use the bacteria to track a certain location or a part of London we cant start closing in on. It's either Sherlock's or the intruder's, but it won't hurt. Next, the laptop is to be dusted for fingerprints, then take it back and try to assemble as much as you can to determine how it was destroyed and what it was destroyed with. Let's go, people, we haven't any time to waste, this man is moving fast and it doesn't look like he's going to stop."

The forensic team split apart, departing to their own respective jobs. Greg remained at the doorway, his back facing the staircase. He wished Sherlock would answer his calls, he had gotten a dozen complaint voicemails from the hospital of his behavior. What was he to do? He wasn't Holmes' babysitter, even if it seemed like that at times. He tried to phone Mycroft, but a man of his status wasn't to be contacted easily, even to the detective inspector of Scotland Yard. The detective would come around himself, do whatever he wanted as usual. His rampage might be explosive and destructive, Greg didn't know.

"Sir," he heard the voice of Andersen from the kitchen. Lestrade furrowed his brows, Andersen was supposed to be doing his job not wandering around the flat, "come here for a minute."

"Andersen," Greg's tone was castigating, "this isn't another one of your drug busts, you're doing your job. It's an actual crime scene, in case you haven't noticed."

"I know, sir, I understand," Andersen nodded, "but I was wondering, why you _didn't_ tell us to check the kitchen at all? Or the upstairs rooms, perhaps?"

"There's no evidence there yet, Andersen, once we clear the area then we can move on, but for now you do your job as a forensic investigator and get moving towards the living room."

"Sir-"

"Now, Andersen!"

"I think he has a point," Donovan came up from behind and pitched in. Greg dry-washed his face with his hand, what was it with these two always pairing up?

"What is it, Sergeant Donovan? You should be lucky to be here, you aren't Forensics, that means you shouldn't be asking questions."

"No, but Andersen has a point," she continued carefully, "this job could take days to complete, and by that time the kidnapper could abduct or attack another victim, Lestade, or even worse, a murder."

His face darkened. John could very well be his first killing.

"All right, what are you suggesting?"

Andersen spoke up now with confidence, "I can take the samples in the kitchen myself, sir, keep the team focused on the living room so you don't use up any more men. I just want to make sure that he didn't enter or exit from any of the rooms upstairs or this kitchen door."

"But, Mrs. Hudson told me Sherlock found this door open," he gestured to the living room green door.

"Well, he could've left or entered from there, we don't know."

"And what would this bring you if you found this information out?"

"Maybe he left a DNA sample."

"Well, that's why we're checking the rest of the flat, plus, there was no DNA on John, he must've been wearing gloves."

"A cloth sample?"

"You're going to waste my supplies and time for a piece of string?"

"Sir," Donovan exhaled, "this could mean everything to the case if we could ID this man, even by a piece of clothing. We could see what stores in London carry this material and check the security feed. It'll take a lot of time, but that's what we do, right?"

"Oh, fine," Greg nodded, "you can do a forensic sweep of the whole flat, but our main priority is the living room. If any substantial evidence appears in there, you drop your arts and crafts project and follow my orders, understand?"

"Right, sir," Andersen smiled, but it melted when he looked over the DI's shoulder.

He was quiet, like a tall, dark shadow. The detective inspector turned around to see Sherlock Holmes standing still in the doorway. The room fell quiet and the forensic team stopped working as they looked to the floors when Holmes appeared. Greg cleared his throat and stepped forward. Sherlock was pale and bony, shadows cutting across his face like daggers. His coat was tightly wrapped against his waist from the London air, but his hands were still blood-stained. Those blue eyes, usually alert, were dull and icy.

"Sherlock," Lestrade stepped forward and grabbed the detective's arm to steer him away from the traffic of the investigative team. He took him into the kitchen where Donovan and Andersen stood to the side. Sherlock looked sickly and ill, not his usual demanding and alert self.

"Sherlock," Greg repeated, "we're performing an investigation of the flat, remember? You told me to get down here?"

He didn't say a word for a moment, but then turned to Lestrade like he suddenly woke up, "Of course, I remember. What type of detective would I be if I didn't thoroughly examine the crime scene?"

" _You_ came _here_ to examine this crime scene?" Andersen gaped. The nerve of this chap! "You we're the one who made it one in the first place," he muttered under his breath.

"Andersen!" Lestrade barked and Donovan elbowed him hard in the ribs.

Sherlock's iron gaze rested on the forensic analyst immediately, his blue eyes ice cold.

"Um. Holmes," Lestrade tried to divert his attention away from Andersen before anything happened, "can you tell me what happened?"

His shoulders sagged and he ran a hand through his hair roughly. Donovan took a step closer.

"Yes, of course," the consulting detective began. He walked into the kitchen to join them as the rest of the forensic team felt more comfortable with the shadowy detective turned away, "I was on my way to go see someone-"

"Who?" Andersen asked.

Sherlock looked at him in the corner coldly, "My brother, Mycroft."

"Keep going," Greg urged.

"We we're discussing a few matters, but it was getting late. I decided to end it there and I left his office near two o'clock in the morning," Sherlock bent the story a little. He didn't want to give Andersen the satisfaction of knowing that he and Mycroft were battling brothers and he used his status to gain information that he was prohibited from, "I was walking down the London streets, they were practically empty due to the horrible weather-"

"What was it like?"

Holmes exhaled shakily, trying to remain calm. Andersen enjoyed it, "Slightly drizzling after the downpour earlier. The air was around forty degrees fahrenheit, is that all right?"

The forensic analyst shrugged.

"As I was saying," Holmes began again, "none of the tourists flocked around the pubs and the locals went home for the night. I opened the door to my building, Mrs. Hudson's lights were off. I climbed the stairs and I noticed the living room door slightly ajar," the memory of the dread that flooded him surfaced again. He shivered, "I stepped inside and there was John," Sherlock's eyes traveled to the bloody patch on the floor where analysts bent over it, "he was bleeding out on the floor. I ran over and opened his shirt to examine the wound, a deep stab in his hip."

"How deep would you say?" Now, Andersen was just doing it to annoy Sherlock.

Lestrade growled at his employee to stay quiet.

"It was deep," Sherlock scowled, "I pressed my hands to the wound, knowing that I should stop the bleeding. I dialed you, Lestrade, to get an ambulance-"

"Why didn't you dial the ambulance first?" this time it was Donovan, but she seemed genuinely intrigued.

"I needed Lestrade to get here as quick as possible to close this off for forensic investigation. By calling the ambulance first, I would be wasting precious time and possible evidence that could be destroyed upon the paramedics' arrival."

"Continue," she nodded. Personally she would call 999 first before Lestrade if her life or her best friend's life depended on it.

"I called for Mrs. Hudson, she couldn't hear me the first few times, but finally she arrived. I ordered her to get me a towel," he nodded to the crumpled rag on the floor that his team was taking photos of, "and the ambulance arrived, taking John away."

"That's good, Sherlock," Greg nodded, not wanting to push him too far, "we can continue tomorrow-"

"No, hold on," Andersen stepped out from the corner, "I have a few more questions."

"Phillip-" Lestrade began to protest.

"This psychopath would question another man even if it killed him to get some answers. It helps with his investigation and this will help ours. Besides, I thought he didn't have any feelings, so he shouldn't be too upset to answer truthfully," Andersen's lip curled into a snarl.

"Enough, Andersen-"

"No," Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "ask me your questions, Phillip, you're right."

"Can I get that in writing?" he scoffed.

"Ask now, Andersen, before I change my mind."

"All right," the forensic analyst slowly was gaining confidence on Sherlock's despondence, "what irresponsible part of your mind made you want to advertise the highly classified, extremely confidential case to the British public?"

Lestrade and Donovan exchanged distressed looks with one another.

"I," Holmes began, "thought that it was a new strategic method to draw out the kidnapper."

"What made you favor that obviously failed strategy?"

He blinked slowly, "I felt confident about my approach."

"Would you say your were a little too _overconfident_ in your logic?" Andersen's eyes glittered.

"That depends on who you're asking."

"I'm asking you."

"Then you should know what my answer will be."

Andersen cracked a dry smile, "Humor me."

Sherlock huffed, "Well, I would say that I wasn't absolutely positive my method would work, it was experimental."

"Ah," Andersen nodded, "so you put the lives of 4 abducted victims in danger based on an experiment."

Sherlock's jaw tightened, but he didn't answer.

"Did you realize that your actions put the lives of your closest and most dear friends and family in danger, as well?"

Holmes stared sharply at his interrogator, "It didn't cross my mind at the moment."

"It must've been quite a shock to you then to come home and see John half-dead on the floor, correct?"

The detective flinched and gritted his teeth, "Yes."

"I should think so," Andersen nodded, walking back and forth in front of Holmes who was as tall and still as a statue. His spine was oddly straight it looked painful and his entire stance was tense, "Did you coordinate with your brother on certain events revolving around the new case?"

"My brother was interested, yes."

"Do you and your brother have friendly relations?"  
"Pass."

"What?"

"Pass."

Andersen stuttered, "Wha-no, you can't pass the question!"

"Well, I choose to pass, so pass."

Phillip looked at Lestrade who shrugged amusingly.

"Fine," he huffed in anger, "do you admit that the reason John is in the hospital, battling for his life, is from your doing?"

"Phillip, enough!" The DI stepped in front of him, "outside, now!"

Sherlock didn't protest, he looked to the floor but his breathing was rough and heavy.

"It was your fault, Holmes, you did this," Andersen growled, "you corrupted the investigation that the detective inspector was kind enough to let you in on. You will end up killing those 4 victims because of your little stunt, Sherlock."

Sherlock stiffened, his face still unrevealing and eyes to the floor. The forensic team in the living room cautiously stopped their work, the air became uncomfortable and tense.

"Phillip, step aside," Donovan looked cautiously from Sherlock to Andersen.

"No, he can't get away with this one again! You act like you run the show, well, guess what you killed your best friend too," the forensic analyst said without remorse. This was ridiculous, just because Sherlock felt a little sad didn't mean that Lestrade should be forgiving him instantaneously! He should be treated properly with the correct punishment, "so, why don't you go and write that in your blog!"

That did it. Holmes looked up from the floor, fury blazing in his eyes and lunged forward. He grabbed Andersen by the shoulders, pushing Greg out of the way and threw him up against the wall. Fear gripped the forensic analyst's face as he wasn't expecting the sudden onslaught on him. His spine connected with the wooden corner of the wall, as Holmes pressed his elbow against his throat.

"One more word, Andersen, _one more word_ and I will throw you out of this house myself," Sherlock whispered sinisterly to his interrogator.

"Sherlock, let him go!" he heard Lestrade as he and Donovan pulled at his shoulder,

Andersen cowered against the wall, his feet barely brushing the floor as the much taller detective rushed him. His eyes were closed tightly and he was shaking, wearing his blue scrub outfit and yellow gloves.

"I clean up your mess whenever I'm asked and all day I survive your taunts just because your puny little self-esteem soars when you think you're clever," Sherlock hissed, "don't make the same mistake of thinking my actions are for not, or next time I'll be absolutely positive that _you're_ the one in the hospital rather than John."

He nodded quickly and Sherlock dropped him. The analyst opened his eyes and panted hard, looking up from the floor with wide eyes as Sherlock stepped back. Donovan ran forward to Andersen and helped him as Lestrade guided Holmes away from him.

"I can't say that that wasn't uncalled for," Greg admitted, "but that was not the way to handle it!"

Holmes took a deep breath, his face looked paler than a few minutes ago and his eyes were becoming bloodshot. He scanned the forensic team members scattered around his flat, they were looking at the floor only and not the searching eyes of the famous detective. They were cleaning John's blood off the floor and removing the carpet. They were bagging away his laptop and picking up the broken pieces of his favorite tea cup from the floor.

"I need to be alone," he announced, his voice dark. He sauntered up the stairs, his feet banging lightly against the staircase. Holmes passed John's room dejectedly, he was forced out of the hospital and now he didn't know what to do. His periodic table against his forest green walls was a small comfort as he sat on his bed, pondering his next course of action.

Donovan stared at the long black coat as it disappeared from the staircase. Sherlock Holmes was never her favorite. He was an interesting fellow, always surprising them in his weird ways constantly. Only John Watson was able to handle it. She remembered when she first met the former soldier on the Study in Pink case, Sally didn't think he would survive a week with Holmes as his flat mate, but here they were, inseparable. Now, after a little complication and the detective's "new strategy", he was forced to work with another detective, his best friend was in the hospital, and he'd just been told that it was his fault. The poor chap helped rescue them from Scotland Yard during the siege with the Computer Criminal, it was something she would never forget.

Andersen was sputtering on the floor and Greg rolled his eyes as he helped him up. Sure, Phillip and her we're together, but Holmes needed help right now.

"I'm going to go see if he's all right," she told the DI who looked at her carefully for a minute, then nodded. She had never really been in Holmes' flat. Donovan heard that Watson sometimes invited Lestrade over for a drink or the rare Christmas party, but they were closed off people who minded their own business. Sherlock was not a bad man, after all, but he had lot's of flaws. The staircase was old and wooden, creaking when you stepped on the floor, and the wallpaper was slightly peeling. Sally passed one room, it was John's. She could tell by the cane that sat in the far corner, one she remembered he used to use when they first met.

The journey to the top of the staircase was intimidating. After his reaction to Andersen's little questionnaire, who knew how he would react to her intrusion? She looked back to see that the forensic team was looking at her like she was a sheep being led to slaughter. Donovan straightened her back and took the first step, no turning back now. Andersen eyed her from the floor, his eyes slightly annoyed that she left him to go to Sherlock but she dismissed it and clim bed to the top. There was only one room up there and it was the consulting detective's. The door was closed, so she knocked on it once softly and turned the knob. When she first opened it, the thick crumpled coat was sitting in front of the entrance. She pushed past it and looked around to see a green colored room with a simple cabinet and a periodic table on the far wall. The bed was large with a nightstand next to it and a door that led to a closet farther away. It was simple, something she didn't usually associate with Sherlock, and her presence felt alien. She never was close with the detective, never had good relations, but ever since the Scotland Yard siege she trusted him more. But this felt like an invasion of his personal space.

"Ahem," she cleared her throat. She knew that Holmes recognized her presence, but didn't acknowledge it. His back was facing her, his dark blue shirt wrinkled from being smushed in the coat the last two days. Holmes' head was slightly bowed, but it lifted when she began to speak.

"Hello, um, i-it's Sergeant Sally Donovan."

"I know who it is," his voice was rough and deep, but he didn't face her.

"Sherlock-"

"First time."

"What?" she asked, baffled.

"That's the first time I've ever heard you call me Sherlock, not 'freak'," his voice was stone cold, and he turned his head to look directly at her. She couldn't help but notice the fluorescent street lights cast a pallor on his already white face. The detective looked haggard but hardened, his jaw was set and tightened with bones peeking from underneath his skin.

"Well," she didn't know how to respond, "you are."

"A very consoling thought, Sergeant Donovan," he snarled at her and turned back, shaking his head, "I wouldn't have expected more from you anyway."

She flinched, "I never said thank you, by the way."

Sally knew that he was aware she was talking about the Scotland Yard siege. She had never properly thanked him because she kept her distance. Now, was the time.

He didn't answer, so she continued.

"I know you don't like me, Sherlock, and I wasn't partially fond of you, either," she sighed, not daring to sit on the bed, "but it was because of you I got to go home that night."

"Obviously," he laughed bitterly, "not good enough. So many people we're injured, I didn't stop it soon enough."

"Are you kidding me?" her eyebrows raised, "Holmes, are you still beating yourself up on that? You clearly were our last resort, and 4 more people we're able to go home that day because of it."

"What are you doing here?" he stood up swiftly, his tall dark shadow outlined against the lights through his bedroom window, "come to give me a pep talk?"

"No," she admitted, to be honest, she didn't even know what brought her up here. But she was here, and she had better make the most of it, "look, you need to try and forget about Scotland Yard and Gerald Price, and start worrying more about the four kidnapped victims right now."

"What about John, Donovan?" he glared at her cruelly, "Who's going to worry about him! I put him in that hospital bed!"

"A tragic result of a necessary action, Sherlock!" she rebuked, "You of all people should know that not everything we do is all good, there are bad things that happen as well. But, think, your tactic worked. The kidnapper made an appearance, you drew him out."

He silenced at that for a moment, "So what are you suggesting? I send another ad and get Mrs. Hudson killed next?"

"Enough," she rolled her eyes, "you're too stubborn, Holmes, think about what's at hand. What information can you gather from the evidence."

"I haven't any evidence!" he threw his hands in the air, "Lestrade didn't trust it with me in the first place, he barely disclosed the case! Don't you understand? I needed to do something to get more knowledge on him, his motives and his behavior, so I published it. I didn't care about the consequences of Scotland Yard," Sherlock growled, "they are as dangerous to me as my nicotine patch. No, I took matters into my own hands because everyone thinks Sherlock Holmes is a monster. Sherlock Holmes has no feelings, Sherlock Holmes has no heart. Well, look around you! My best friend is in the hospital and I may have signed the death certificate of four members of Parliament."

Donovan sighed somberly. Is this how he really felt? It was true that most people at the station believed Sherlock to be a merciless, unfeeling man which was somewhat true. He didn't look at a body and feel sympathy, he looked for clues. But it couldn't have been easy to see the one person who actually cared be put in critical condition by your own hands.

"I can get you some evidence," she looked at him, his eyebrows peaked, "the lockers at the Yard, I have access to them."

"Sergeant Donovan," he looked at her, she couldn't read his face, "you would put your job on the line after I have undoubtedly done wrong?"

"You're the freak, freak," she raised an eyebrow as the detective's gaze leveled hers, "you can stop this. I've seen you ID the location of a kidnapping by a speck of dust on a footprint. Now, off you go."

Donovan stepped aside to leave the doorway unblocked. It was a motion for him to get up off his arse and go do something. Sherlock gave her a long, questioning look before he stepped to the doorway, straightened his collar, grabbed his coat, and walked out the door. Sally gave the bedroom one last look and closed the door behind her.

 **Chapter 7 will be released soon!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7 is here! Let me know what you're thinking with a review or if you have an suggestions or questions! Thanks to my followers/favoriters/reviewers!**

"I'm going out," Lestrade and the team heard a voice come running down the stairs. Sherlock emerged, his long arms fitting in the sleeves of his coat with Donovan on his heels. He was awestruck. What had she managed to do? When Sherlock trudged up the stairs he was despondent and full of guilt, but he came out more determined and fiery.

"Gavin," he turned rightfully to the Detective Inspector who cracked a smile, "you collect your evidence and bring it to me immediately, no more hiding. You hired me, I'm going to do my job the proper way without your moronic thoughts thinking otherwise," the detective instructed, "if I can somehow get any advantage over the kidnapper, I'll take it. Understand?"

"Yes, of course, Sherlock," Lestrade nodded, "but where are you going?"

"Don't you remember, Lestrade? This case is absolutely confidential, now what kind of detective would I be if I disclosed any information to the British public so hazardously?" his eyes glittered like they used to.

Greg snorted with laughter, happy to see some of the old Holmes resurface, "All right, off you go, but if I give you a call, you'd better answer it!"

Holmes pointedly pulled his mobile from his pocket and tossed it to an unsuspecting forensic analyst examining John's laptop, "Keep that safe, will you?" Greg rolled his eyes, that was a somewhat mild reaction by Sherlock.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in amusement as he passed Lestrade, gave Donovan a dip of his head, glared at Andersen, and walked out the door ready to catch a kidnapper.

He hailed a cab and ruffled his coat collar before stepping in fluidly, "Scotland Yard," he instructed as he slammed the door closed. His thoughts immediately wandered to John, but he pushed that out of the way. Now wasn't the time. If he had any hope to save his friend, it was making sure this criminal was off the streets for good. And he would make that happen.

The cabbie screeched to a stop in front of the building and Holmes stepped out. He looked at the Yard for a moment. This place was his hub for interesting quests to thirst his never-ending curiosity. Sherlock swiftly stepped inside and hopped into the elevator to travel upstairs to Lestrade's floor. Inside was the regular flurry and bustle he witnessed a day ago as the government investigative team members daunted the regular Yard employees. Holmes sighed before going to an office that he thought he would never enter once more.

The name plate read: Det. Holland Butler

Sherlock cleared his throat before knocking on the closed mahogany doors.

"Come in," he heard the reply from behind.

Holmes entered the room broadly, not wanting to show Butler he had absolved his earlier insults.

"Sherlock," the detective stood up and straightened his coat, "I got your call earlier, I-I couldn't say that I wasn't surprised because of our last encounter."

The consulting detective stood straight, his thoughts traveled back to when he had finally convinced himself to call Butler in the emergency room.

"Listen, by the way," he wiped his hands on his suit, "I wanted to apologize for my behavior, I didn't realize I had offended you."

"Yes, well, really think it through next time," Sherlock said a little tartly, _that isn't possible for this twit,_ "and it is done now, it's beneath me," _Not really._

"Good, yes," his Scottish accent sounded nervous, "a-again, my deepest apologies. What did you want to see me for?"

"Our case, of course," he gave him a scrutinizing look, _Lestrade really wants me to work with this?_

"Oh," Butler's confused brows arched in surprise, "Oh! Really?"

"If you're going to keep asking questions, then make them something worth my answer, Butler," Holmes rolled his eyes.

"Yes, yes, where are my manners," he said a little excitedly, "please sit."

Holmes sat down stiffly in one of the office chairs. The layout looked like Lestrade's office but much smaller.

"New office?"

"Yeah, it's temporary, once the case is over I'll go back home to my regular quarters."

"Oh, well, a little tight wouldn't you say? Considering Scotland Yard handpicked you, I would think they'd give you better provisions, yes?"

Butler paused and laughed for a moment, "You're right to try and insult me back, it's okay. I've earned it."

"Oh, we're just beginning," Sherlock smiled.

"So, you wanted to talk a little about the case?" he tried to change topics quickly.

"Yes, Mr. Butler," Sherlock emphasized the "b" sound, "we need to do a complete scan of our evidence. I need to see it, where is it?"

"The evidence? Well, Sherlock, it's downstairs in the locker-"

"Perfect, let's go," Holmes stood up.

"Wait!" Butler scrambled from his seat, "I-I don't know how to say this, but I-I can't really…show you the evidence."

The consulting detective blinked once, "Why not?"

"Well, ever since the case had been published on Mr. Watson's blog page, my superiors have told me to withdraw your opinion from the case," Holland gulped nervously.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade personally assigned me to this case."

"I understand that, sir, I do, but even his bosses informed me."

"So your superiors would come to you first rather than me and the Detective Inspector, who are personally involved in this, because they trust you wholeheartedly or you're just the messenger?" Sherlock said hardly.

"No, Mr. Holmes, I'm sure this is very abashing, I'm sorry, but those we're just my orders."

"I see," Sherlock pulled at his coat with skilled fingers, "Mr. Butler, I hope you understand that 'orders 'don't do too well with me. I don't care if it's your boss or the Queen herself, but I don't take demands from anyone," he took one step closer to the detective, "and certainly not from you," Butler stepped back as Sherlock advanced, "I'm going to the evidence lockers right now," he turned the doorknob, "and it's your choice if you wish to join me," Sherlock stepped out and walked pointedly to the elevator.

"Mr. Holmes!" he heard the detective's muffled voice become louder as he followed him out into the crowded main office, "Mr. Holmes, wait!"

"Do keep up, Butler, I don't like to dawdle."

The elevator doors dinged open and Holmes stepped inside.

"Sir," Butler panted, "I'm sorry, I can't let you go down-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pressed the "close" button on the elevator panel. The brass doors slid closed on Holland Butler and he looked at the consulting detective in shock as they shut in front of his face.

John felt his eyes flutter open and bleached lights swim in front of his eyes. His head was pounding but worst of all there was a burning sensation in his side. Watson groaned and rolled his head away from the blinding light that made his eyes squeeze close.

"Ah, finally."

The voice knocked John right back to his senses. Could it be? Was it really him?

"John, you're finally awake. I couldn't say how many times I ordered the nurses to administer a drug to speed up the process, they incessantly refused. There is no civility in society these days."

Mycroft Holmes.

The army doctor pried his eyes open roughly, his vision returning a little more clearer. He was definitely in a hospital room, in a bed with a drape on, and in the plush red chair was a man in a grey suit wielding a cane.

"Mycroft?" John asked groggily, his voice hoarse.

"Oh, John, do speak up, how do you expect me to understand what you're saying otherwise?"

Are you serious? He just woke up in a hospital room, knocked out for who knows how long, and here he was being reprimanded for it.

"A-" he cleared his throat harshly, "a glass of water would be nice."

"Yes, well the nurses will come around soon," Mycroft crossed his legs, "On to more important matters-"

"Mycroft, what in bloody hell are you even doing here?" John winced as he pulled his body upright into more of a sitting position, "I never thought you to be the sentimental type."

"You're not dead yet, Mr, Watson, don't create silly little fantasies," his brown brows shot up and he smiled with amusement.

"Figured it wasn't heaven."

"Most correctly."

"Wait, wait, wait," John's face creased with worry and fatigue, "oh no! The kidnapper! He was at the flat," he started to scramble his legs together to be prepared to jump out of bed, "I need to go warn Shrelock and Lestrade-"

"Calm down, Watson," Mycroft slammed the edge of his cane on the bed frame to block John from leaving, "just hear what I came to say."

"Mycroft, I'm sure it's important, but Sherlock-"

"He's fine," the older Holmes rolled his eyes, "it's all Sherlock with you, I mean is there no concern for me who has been waiting for you to wake up for what seems like years now, Watson?"

John ground his teeth together, sliding back into bed, "Yes, of course."

"Much better, John, a little appreciation doesn't go amiss. As I was saying, I need to bring up a few details of this new case with you."

"Why not Sherlock? I'm sure he's been handling it fervently now that I've been…" John looked down at himself, "out of action."

"Parliament would sooner have a unanimous vote one a proposal before my younger brother and I have a peaceful confrontation."

"I agree on that one," Watson chuckled and groaned, holding his side, "how long was I out?"

"Day, day and a half," Mycroft answered airily with a wave of his hand, "but that's besides the point, the case-"

"Well," John interrupted, "did they say I was going to be all right?"

"John, do I look like I am your doctor?"

"You are a lot of things, Mycroft, but a man who has a general sense of caring for others isn't one of them."

"Couldn't have said it better myself, Mr. Watson," Mycroft stood up gracefully, "now, I need you to give Sherlock a few things from me."

"But, the doctors-"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, John, you were a doctor yourself, weren't you? Can't you conclude a diagnosis from your own condition?"

"Of course," Watson's irritation spilled forth, "my apologies for the inconvenience."

"Granted. Now, this parcel that I must deliver…"

"Why not drop it by at the flat?"

"Because if Sherlock sees anything from my end, then he'd disregard it completely. But, if the information came from you…"

"Then he'd listen. Look, I don't like you using me or conning Sherlock like that, Mycroft," John's brow furrowed.

"A small fib is hardly in comparison to the greater good, Mr. Watson, you should know. I'm sure in Afghanistan there were a few situations where that did apply?"

The army doctor's face darkened immediately, "Don't you ever speak to me about that."

"A simple observation, John," Mycroft shrugged it off, "but Sherlock's case will tremendously benefit from my resources."  
"I'll look into it," John answered, reaching for the orange call button on the side of his bed.

"John," Mycroft's voice was condescending, "I didn't trek all the way down here with the Injured and Infected just so you could 'look into it.' I will send a car over to your flat later tonight, there will be a parcel with my man there and make sure it reaches Sherlock. It's absolutely imperative."

A nurse dressed in a white frock came inside quickly. When she saw Mycroft, her eyes darkened.

"it's you again," the irritation in her voice was unmistakable, "you need to leave, sir, if I ask again I will be forced to remove you," she sounded like she wanted that.

John looked at Mycroft questioningly as he picked up his coat and walked halfway to the door, "You know these young nurses," he smiled, "stress of the job, they can't cope."

Her eyes widened with anger as Holmes walked past her flamboyantly, his cane tapping against the floor on his way out. She came to John's bedside with a hard face.

"Friend of yours?" John noticed she was a little rough with his tubes and his blankets.

"I wouldn't quite call it that," he strained, "but I do have a few questions to ask you."

"Wondering where that tall bloke is?"

"Tall bloke?" Watson already knew who she was talking about, "dark curly hair? IQ of 500+?"  
"Wears a long coat, complains a lot, calls everyone an idiot?"  
"That's him," John winced as she examined his wound.

"Yes, he hangs around a lot," she repackaged the injury, "the doctor will be in shortly, he'll inform you on any updates and your current condition, Mr. Watson."

She was heading for the door and John winced as he tried to reach after her, "Wait, please don't leave yet."

"Sir, you cannot be doing this to yourself right now," she tutted as she came back over and laid him down again.

"What's your name?"

"Jennifer."

"Jennifer, that's a lovely name, but please this is of absolute importance," his eyes were pleading.

Jennifer the Nurse pursed her lips and exhaled, "All right, I've only got a few minutes."

"Thank you. Did this man tell you where he was going or where he had been to?"

"I don't know," she furrowed her brows, "he either talked a lot and yelled at us all or sat there for hours without uttering a word."

"That sounds like him." John couldn't help but laugh, "are you sure though?"

"I don't know, I mean a detective came in. I think his name was Graham? Gavin? Not sure, that's what your friend called him anyway." she shook her head.

"Yes, that's Greg, Greg Lestrade. He's a detective inspector at Scotland Yard. Did they mention anything about a case? A really confidential one?"  
"Not really, they spoke quietly, but there was something about evidence at 221B I think?" John smiled, these nurses loved to eavesdrop, gossip is what they thrived on, "I don't know what it means though."

Sherlock made Lestrade make the flat a crime scene. There was an investigation that probably panned out at the apartment, forensics and everything. Holmes most likely was asking to see it, well, asking wasn't his style, more ordering. And if Andersen was there it would have been a madhouse.

"I know exactly what that means," that meant John needed to get up and get moving, "now, I need to get out of here, Jennifer."

Watson started to hoist his legs and lift his covers, but the nurse pushed him back in, "No, sir, I can't let you do that. Your doctor will be in shortly and he'll inform you of your discharge."

"No, Jennifer, please I need to go," Watson struggled, "my friend is in danger."

"He can handle himself for the time being, sir," she pulled the covers over him again, "I will be forced to restrain you if you try anything again, Mr. Watson."

The army doctor sighed in defeat. He would have to stay here until he was allowed to leave. Anything could happen.

Before she left, Jennifer turned around. John gave her a careful look.

"I know you're worried, Mr. Watson, but your friends have been too. Now, they have good news that you're awake and responsive so don't spoil it with more concerns. I'm sure when they come back around, you can tell them whatever it is, but right now I'm sure your health is more important to them than this case, all right?"  
She had no idea who his friends were then.

"Yes, of course."

"By the way," she stopped again, "that man that was just in here? Is he friend of that tall bloke that usually pops in too?"

She was referring to Mycroft and Sherlock. He laughed, "Yes, actually, they're brothers."

"God help their parents," she exhaled as she opened the door, "and God help you."

Jennifer exited the room and John leaned his head back, _oh, you have no idea._

 **Chapter 8 will be released soon!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry for the delay in the chapter! I was out of town, but we're back now! The story is going to reach it's climax, so I hope you're all enjoying it! Leave me a review plz!**

"Open the door!" Detective Butler yelled at a bumbling officer who was guarding the cage doors to the lockers, "I said open it!"  
"Identification, sir," the officer looked at him with wide eyes like he was crazy.

He groaned with frustration and rammed a hand in his pocket to pull out his ID. He felt around, but the pocket was empty.

"What the-"  
He kept searching, turned out the inside of his pockets, but there was nothing there.

"Please, my name is Detective Holland Butler," he looked at the security officer, "I must've left the ID badge upstairs, you can look me up, call my superior officer, I don't care, but I need to get in there. There's a man that came down here-"

"Wait, you're Holland Butler?" the officer looked at him carefully.

"Yes, that's me."

"Well, then who was the Holland Butler that just stepped inside?"  
"What? No, you need to get that man out of there this instant!"

"Not according to Sergeant Donovan," he rebuked and looked at the real Butler suspiciously.

"Sergeant Donovan?" Holland thought, confused, until he saw two forms come from the dim light pathways.

"Ah, Detective Butler," Sherlock announced as he approached and the guard opened the gate for him, "how nice of you to join us."

"Yes, well, um," he stuttered for a moment trying to compose himself, "my badge, please?"

"Of course, thank you for lending it to me," he looked at him with bitter amusement. _Payback was always so sweet._

"Did you-you look at the evidence, then?"

"Like I said, Detective, orders don't do too well with me," Sherlock thanked Sergeant Donovan with a nod who was talking with the officers and he swiftly walked by Butler. Holland shivered as the coat blew a little breeze on his arm.

"I understand that now," Butler followed, "well, now since you know our status we can have a proper discussion on the case."

"I analyzed the evidence recovered from the four kidnappings and flat 221B-"  
"Flat 221B? Isn't that where you live?" there was question in the Detective's expression.

"Yes," Sherlock's gaze darkened, "our flat was broken into, John was attacked."

"John?! Dear me, is he all right!?" Butler's eyes grew wide and full of horror.

This made Holmes harden, "He's recovering just fine, he'll be out shortly," Sherlock hoped for that. He hadn't had a lick of John's condition in a few hours, "as the evidence pronounces-"

"Let's go into my office," Butler opened the door to his space as they arrived on that floor.

Sherlock stepped through and Holland closed the door after them.

"I'm sorry, it's just that some of the evidence can be…a bit disturbing to some of the other staff members."

Sherlock blinked once, "On the contrary, I found the evidence for this case a bit mild. Don't tell me you get squeamish around a little gore, detective?"

"Of course not."

"Good," Sherlock set a map down on the table, an orange envelope filled with photographs, and a clear box of evidence bags, "let's begin."

Holmes drew a red circle around the spots of each kidnapping scene and a square around their residences.

"All right, these are the known locations," he gestured to them, "and they are all relatively centered around Parliament."

"Okay," Butler looked at Holmes questioningly, "so?"

"So, now we look for data, we look for connections. If I'm forced to work with you, Butler, you must understand I must know everything and anything about my case, understand?"

"Yes, of course, sir, but what are the rest of these?" he pointed to the box and envelope.

"Oh," Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I was hoping you'd leave at this point."

"Wha-leave? Why? You've only showed me a map!"

"You're boring me, Butler, do keep up," Holmes shook his head, "examine the photographs, tell me what you think."

The detective nodded and he unclasped the metal prong on the yellow envelope. Inside were about 20 images-brutal images-of the victims. They were sent by the kidnapper obviously, like he was a cat playing with mice.

"Well," Holland scratched his head, "he's definitely enjoying himself. If he's taking these pictures, he wants to show off, he's cocky. He feels victorious."

"Continue," Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin,

"Um," Butler was trying to notice anything useful in the photographs. He was having trouble looking past the terrified faces of their victims, the women's faces streaked with running mascara from crying and the men with puffy bags under their eyes. The fabric in their mouths were dirty rags that looked like it was choking the life out of them, the surrounding room was cut off mostly except for some shadowy broken objects scattered about. The flash illuminated a metal chair that each victims sat in, but other than that the photos only had little to tell.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, the photographs are pretty unrevealing. They're just a statement piece. Maybe if I had a look at the evidence bags-" his eyes traveled over to the box of evidence from the scenes of the crimes.

"No," Sherlock's hand came down on the lid, "give them to me."

Butler willingly handed the photos to the consulting detective who gave him a hard, disapproving stare.

He gave it one quick look, his blue irises moving like rapid fire across the image. Butler watched with extreme attention as he was about to witness the chaotic yet amazing display of deductions delivered by the famous Sherlock Holmes.

"The victims were taken during daytime, in plain sight judging by the way they're dressed. They are wearing the distinguished outfits for their daily office jobs at Parliament; the dress code is thoroughly enforced there. Polished two inch heels, uncomfortably tight animal leather shoes, diamond cufflings, knee-high pencil skirt. It couldn't have been at night, they aren't going to be wearing this type of dress during the evening," he looked at it some more, "our first victim was kidnapped 12-10 days ago judging by the layers of dirt and grime under her fingernails and the developing bruises on her wrists from the rope. Second victim, 9-7 days, third victim 6-4 days, and last victim just recently 3-2 days."

"You can get all that from just dirty fingernails?!" Butler's eyes widened.

"And bruises, of course."

Holland looked like he was about to say something then stopped, speechless.

"And it seems they are all sitting in the same room," Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"The same room? How can you be so sure?"

"The kidnapper has taken his shots at an angle. This woman is sitting in one corner of the room, this the other, so on and so forth because in the back, although a little dark, you can see where the wall meets the other at the corner."

"But why keep them in the same room?"

"Why does anyone do anything, Butler?"  
"I'm saying, wouldn't it feel a bit odd? What if one of these victims we're to escape their bondage?"  
"Detective, these people have been sitting like this for days, you think they'd escape now?"

"It's good to give them the benefit of the doubt."

"The benefit of the doubt is for people who rely on some all-powerful being to miraculously cure their problems. No, that is not real, there is no miracles, and these people have no chance unless we rely on our own selves to solve it for them."

"Okay, then what do you suppose?"  
"Ritual."

"Ritual?!" Butler blurted, "what do you mean by that?"  
"This man is cocky, he's proud, he's been doing everything for a reason including attacking John. He was trying to throw me off, he was trying to stop the investigation, but little did he know that he's only piqued my interest even more," Holmes' voice was hard and sharp, "there's just one irregularity in the photo."

"I have no doubt that you are grieving John's unfortunate accident, Mr. Holmes, but don't you think a suggestion so unfathomable such as a ritual is a little too far?"

"The only reason something is regarded as "unfathomable" is because the normal human brain cannot possibly understand the true meaning behind it," Sherlock's rebuke was angry, "and if you still deem it that then you can leave now, Butler."

"No, Mr. Holmes," Holland sighed, "continue."

"The irregularity is most peculiar. It seems that two of the victims are at the corners of the room," he looked even closer at the photos, switching them rapidly before his eyes, "and two of them are not."

"How so?" Butler came and stood next to Sherlock, his eyes narrowing in question.

"You can see the corners where one female and one male sit," he pointed to the dark wall in the back of the photograph. However, the flash did illuminate the line in the wall where they met, "but these two are not."

"Then where are they sitting?"

"Does it look like I've been in the room, Butler?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I need time to find out."

"Okay, how much time, Sherlock? Because we have four kidnapped victims from Parliament and-" Butler stopped talking.

"And what?"

Holland took a deep breath and scratched the back of his head, "They are gathering for a mandatory meeting on Thursday at the Palace of Westminister."

"What?" Sherlock slammed his hand down on the desk,"Are they idiots or just want to die?! Parliament is Britain's foundation and our biggest target! They can't go on!"

"I don't make the rules, Sherlock, or the schedule. I got word today from my boss that our intel heard. It's happening in two days, Mr. Holmes, and our kidnapper is going to have a field day if he finds out."

"Is it being broadcasted to the media?"

"It's supposed to be classified, but you know the media, they'll get their hands on it eventually."

"Okay, our biggest concern is trying to contain the information," Sherlock paced the room, his hands running through his hair, "and trying to find our victims before the meeting starts."

"Before the meeting starts? Sherlock, you do understand that even with the threat of a kidnapper, the meeting will continue? Parliament has been the heart of England for centuries, we are under a terrorist threat right now we cannot be thinking about saving our victims yet if our entire government foundation is potentially going to be obliterated."

"No, saving those victims will stop the ritual. If our kidnapper doesn't have his tools to complete it then he cannot possibly continue it."

"Sherlock, this idea of the ritual is bad, I agree, but all of Parliament could be in danger of a bomb threat or possibly a group of gunmen, who knows? I know it sounds bad, but that cannot be our biggest concern right now when the entire governing body of Great Britain will perish."

"But we are not certain! Butler, listen to the logic of your reasoning! You are suggesting we increase our security measures at Westminister Palace to try and dim the collateral damage of an attack we are not entirely sure of while still a few will go down in the flames. I'm suggesting that if we find our kidnapper's hideout and save the victims before the big meeting, then he will have nothing to complete his ritual."

"Sherlock, that's not smart, our entire forces should be focused on keeping the Parliament members safe."

"Safe? You call keeping them grouped up in one of the most targeted buildings in all of London safe?"

"I can understand you are upset because of John-"

"Don't you _dare_ think that John's condition has hindered my better judgement, Butler," Sherlock's snarl made the detective step back, "I don't answer to idiots who think they have authority just because they wear a badge."

Holland sighed, rubbing a hand on his forehead, "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Sherlock's ice blue eyes were glowing like white flames. He glared at Butler who's eyes were looking at the floor.

"What?"

"Leave the evidence and go, please, Mr. Holmes, I can update you periodically about the case."

Sherlock stood still as a statue for a moment.

"Your input has been most valued by me and you've been a huge help on our case, I thank you, Sherlock."

Butler held out his hand to shake the consulting detective's but he put it down after a minute when he didn't return it.

Sherlock took a deep, rattling breath, his shoulders tense. He couldn't believe his ears but if the Scotchman didn't want his help, then he didn't need to have it. Holmes turned around sharply, his long coat sticking close to him as he slammed the door and stalked out of Scotland Yard.

John pulled a Sherlock. He was in the hospital for about an hour after he woke up fresh and in pain. Mycroft's visit gave him a headache, but he couldn't stop thinking about the case. How far had Sherlock got on it? Were the victims saved? Did the kidnapper strike again? These were questions not to be answered stuck in a hospital bed. So he called in a favor from Mycroft, surprise surprise. The older Holmes was elated to see John turning a new leaf as long as he was to ensure Sherlock gets the package he was adamant about telling him earlier. John swore up, down, side to side, as long as he was out of there as fast as possible. A nurse can in, unhooked him from his IV, checked his stitching was intact, gave him bottles of prescribed medication, and off he was being wheeled into a waiting black van. The magic of Mycroft Holmes. He was dropped off on the curb of Baker Street next to Speedy's Cafe. He limped through the doorway, using a walker from the hospital. It reminded him of the days when he first met Holmes and used his can from his injury during the war. The feeling of being at home once again was mixed. This was the place he had thrilling experiences ever since the consulting detective became his flatmate, but it had just recently been embedded in his mind as a place of attack ever since the kidnapper broke into the flat. He felt they were untouchable, but now his security felt compromised. Was he safe in the flat?

Watson tried to push the thought out of his mind. Of course it was safe, why not? He was going to see Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock, and he was going to help on the case. He was going to get back into his old skin as Dr. John Watson and he was going to see the kidnapper who hurt him pay for his crimes. The army doctor watched as the black car pulled away and he opened the door with the crooked knob. Mrs. Hudson gave him an enormous hug as he knocked on her doorway. She smelled of lavender and cooking bread. It was a comforting scent after being stuck with latex gloves and antiseptic for the last few days. The stairs seemed like a mountain of a climb but he would be happy to mount them, to remind him that he was recovering.

John hesitated in front of the green front door. He didn't know if Sherlock was in there, he didn't know how he'd react. That didn't matter now. John pushed open the flat door and stepped inside. The red faded oriental rug was still on the floor, papers and books littering it. There were dust mites bouncing across the air and documents, photographs, and evidence bags scattered across the desk and couch. The leather armchair he always sat in caught his eye. That's what he was sitting in the night the flat was broken into and he was stabbed. His irises traveled down to the carpet where a blood stain was dried up on the fabric. A chill slowly moved down his spine and he flinched as his abdomen wound flared up.

There was a clinking noise from the kitchen and John froze instinctually. He turned his head to see a long lanky figure with his back turned looking in the fridge. Watson felt a deep breath escape him. It was Sherlock Holmes. He was easily identifiable with his mop of curly dark hair and aura of authority. John looked down at himself. He was dressed in his cracked brown leather jacket, some old slacks, and brown shoes. His face was probably tired and pale and his hair everywhere. Either way, he was going to see Sherlock.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat from the doorway.

The consulting detective's back froze. He straightened himself up and his head was held high. John could see Sherlock was trying to understand if that really was him in the doorway. He closed the fridge door softly and stood there a moment longer. Watson waited with anticipation as Holmes, slowly, finally turned his body around. His blue eyes rested on the haggard face of his partner and a sigh of relief escaped him. In four long strides, Holmes cleared the kitchen and living room, finally standing right in front of John.

"Are you all right?"

"Y-yes, Sherlock, I am, but-"

"Does it hurt?"

"What?"

"Your injury, John, does it pain you?"  
"I've got prescription."

Sherlock blinked once, slowly, "John, I'm sorry."

"What? Why are you sorry?"

"It's my fault the flat was broken into, my fault you were put in the position you were in."

"Holmes, do not go blaming yourself," John sighed, seeing the consulting detective's eyes battling guilt, "I'm better now."

"Yes, now you are, John, but what if he cut you a little higher to the heart, maybe a little deeper into your organs, what then?" Sherlock stepped away from Watson and paced the carpet, his hands running through his hair, "I need to find him, Watson, I need to."

John took a deep breath, "All right what do we do?"

Holmes stopped for a minute and looked to John with a smile, "You'll help me?"

"Of course I will, Sherlock, what kind of question is that?"

"It's just that recently I've been questioned by a lot of people, someone in particular," he rolled his eyes as he thought of Butler, "it's relieving to know that there are still some people who can actually listen."

"I've been gone too long, Sherlock," John looked at his friend up and down. Even though he had just been released from the hospital, Sherlock was still human and he looked exhausted. The man probably hadn't slept in the last 4 or 5 days, that wasn't too bad for Sherlock, except there was no John Watson to keep him at bay. The consulting detective was probably eating himself away with guilt, no food, no water, no rest. From what he had heard, Holmes wasn't getting full access on the case ever since his little stunt and that meant he was forced to confront his own thoughts. Thoughts of him putting John in the hospital.

"Yes, but you're back now," Sherlock said breathily and walked up to John again, "sit, you need rest."

"And so do you," John flinched as he sat himself down on the couch. Not the armchair.

"Irrelevant," he brushed it off, "now do you need anything?"

John smiled with amusement. He knew Sherlock was absolutely dying to have someone listen to his rants.

"No, no," he smiled, "so what's new with the case?"

"Ah, I thought you'd never ask," his face was alive with delight, "John, it has just gotten exceedingly merrier, apparently there is to be a meeting held at Westminster Palace in two days."

"What? Sherlock, that's horrible news!" John stood up quickly, too quickly, and held his painful wound, "someone could get kidnapped, or worse, killed!"

"Exactly, John!" Sherlock laughed, his blue eyes alive, "This is the perfect distraction!"

"Distraction?" John scoffed, "Listen to yourself, Sherlock!"

"I am, _you_ aren't, Watson!" Sherlock's face became a littler more serious, "with the kidnapper's thoughts targeted on the meeting, this is my opportunity to find the four victims."

"Holmes, those victims have been gone for more than a week," John sighed softly, "we don't know if they're alive or not, Sherlock. Our main priority is preventing anymore Parliament members from getting kidnapped."

"John, you don't understand," Sherlock paced again, "it's a ritual, our kidnapper is planning a ritual."

"How can you tell?"

"By the photographs," Holmes walked over to the desk and pulled out the images roughly from the envelope, "look, all the victims are strategically sitting in positions in the same room."

"Okay, that could mean anything," John shrugged, unconvinced.

"It could," Holmes went over to the evidence bags scattered on the couch, "except, for these."

"What's this?" John held the plastic bags in his fingers. Inside the bag, the contents were peculiarly disturbing, "Sherlock, is this…animal parts?"

"Precisely, John," Holmes steepled his fingers under his chin, "dead animal remains."

"Oh my god!" John threw the bag on the floor, "bloody hell!"

"Oh, it's bloody all right, Watson," Sherlock picked the bag up and threw it back on the couch, "I've been doing a little research-"

"Hold on, Sherlock!" John took a few deep breaths to compose himself, "what the hell are we dealing with here?!"

"A very sick man, Watson, nothing different then from what we have before," Sherlock stood in front of John, urgency etched into his face, "our kidnapper is planning something big to show all of England-hell, all of the world-and if he succeeds, he will shock the foundations we have built upon."

"What are you saying, Sherlock? This isn't normal, this isn't human!"

"Try to understand, John!" Sherlock gripped his shoulders, "Put the pieces together in your mind!"

"I-I can't!"

"Oh, don't be daft, Watson," Holmes sneered, "fine, I'll show you myself."

He walked over to the desk and picked up a pad of paper.

"Tell me, John, what shape has five sides?"

"Uh, I don't know, a pentagon?"

"Good, you're close," Sherlock begin drawing a few lines on the paper, "but in terms of what we're dealing with, a pentagram."

"A pentagram?" John repeated, "like the star?"

"Yes, John, like the star. But this isn't just some any star, it's used in rituals, magic, and is a sacred symbol."

"Okay?"

"Our kidnapper is planning a ritual, I'm not sure what kind, but it's obviously going to require a sacrifice."

"The Parliament members," John's voice sounded like a ghost.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, "but he isn't done yet. He wants all five points of his pentagram with a human ready to be sacrificed and he needs one more."

"Westminister Palace is going to be like a hunting ground," Watson felt a chill run down his spine, "Sherlock, we need to alert the police."

"No, Watson, not yet," Holmes stepped in front of John who was limping to the door, "we can't."

"We ca-" John's eyes widened, "Sherlock, are you mad?"

"Possibly," he smirked, "but we need to find the kidnapper first."

"Oh, sure, Holmes, that'd be great," Watson's voice grew louder, "we've only been trying to do that for the last 2 weeks!"

"Where is the package?"

"The package?"

"Yes, the one Mycroft told you to give to me."

"You know about that?" John gawked.

"Of course I know, Watson," Sherlock rolled his eyes, "there's not a lot my brother can keep from me."

John groaned in irritation as he pulled out the thick yellow envelope from within his jacket. It was heavy with papers from what he assumed and Holmes tore it open like a present on Christmas Day.

"Well?" John tried to get a look over Holmes' shoulder, "What's it say?"

"Come on, John," Sherlock smiled as he went over to the coat rack and grabbed his famous long wool coat, "we're off to the Yard."

"Why?"

"Because I know what he's going to do next."

 **Chapter 9 will be released soon!**


	9. Chapter 9

**This is a climactic chapter, everyone, especially the end! I hope you all enjoy it, please review/fav/follow to let me know what you think!**

When Sherlock walked back into Scotland Yard, the building he was shunned out of a few hours ago, he was a man filled with confidence. John hobbled by his side, trying to match the aura of integrity from his partner, with his cracked brown jacket and old slacks. He marched through the door, allowed security to thoroughly check him, then glided to the metal elevator doors, John close behind.

"You're excited," John noted.

"No I'm not."

"Oh, look at you," Watson scoffed, "you're like a toddler who just got handed a new bicycle for their birthday."

"You compare a child and his bicycle to a kidnapper on a fiendish spree with four victims of Parliament?" Holmes' eyes glowed with amusement and delight, "tut-tut, Watson, how inappropriate."

The detective practically leaped through the doors when they opened, navigating himself smoothly through the crowded desks and finally halting in front of a door that read: Det. Holland Butler.

"Ugh," Sherlock groaned, "this idiot."

"Sherlock, he can't be so bad," John met him there, "just because he's doing his job doesn't mean he's a horrible person."

"That's arguable," he rolled his eyes as he turned the knob.

There were multiple people in the small office space: Holland Butler, Phillip Andersen, and Sally Donovan. All part of Sherlock's Most Hated List.

"John," Sally smiled and exclaimed as she whooshed past Sherlock and grabbed his shoulder hard, "I'm glad to see you're okay."

"Yes, recovering, Donovan," John laughed a little surprisingly. _Was Sergeant Sally Donovan ever this caring?_

Anderson glared at Sherlock thoroughly before turning his attention to the injured army doctor, "Mr. Watson," he dipped his head.

"Anderson," John returned it, "it looks like you three have been working on the case."

"Yes," Butler cleared his throat, "Mr. Watson, I am so sorry to hear about the break-in at the flat. Mr. Holmes told me earlier this evening; if you ever are in need of anything, let me know," his voice was genuine.

"Of course, sir," John tried to turn the attention from him again, "the case?"

"Unfortunately-" Butler began.

"The psychopath can't be here,"Andersen looked blatantly at Sherlock, "he mucked it up last time, he has no clearance."

"Certainly we can just keep our silence for a little bit so we can get a look on the case?" John said as sweet as honey.

Andersen's eyes flared even more, "Not a chance."

"Phillip," Butler said carefully, "would you mind stepping outside real quick and grabbing us all your evidence from the Lab?"

"What do you mean?! It's all here!"

"Maybe you missed something?" Holland grabbed his shoulder lightly, "It never hurts to check."

"Oh, so you're siding with him now, huh? It's always the Great Sherlock Holmes, isn't it?" Phillip stomped to the door, "One of these days, I'm going to get you back, Holmes, one of these days."

Anderson slammed the door behind him.

"Yes, good, now that half of the morons are out of the room…" Sherlock taunted, talking plainly about Detective Butler.

"Be nice," John whispered, but a smile tugged at his lips.

"Now, where we're we," Sherlock began.

"Last I recall," Butler spoke, "I had asked you to leave, Mr. Holmes."  
"Butler, this case will be a lot easier the minute you start realizing you can accomplish this without me," Sherlock raised a brow, "do you even have the slightest clue of what our kidnapper will do next?"

"Well, no, but-"

"Exactly," the consulting detective paused for a moment, "he's about to become a murderer."

"A what?!" Donovan choked, "Murder?"

"Precisely," Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back.

"Do you have evidence to support this?" Butler asked.

"I don't need evidence when I have logic by my side," Sherlock retorted, "he's performing a ritual."

"Ritual?" Sally's voice only increased in disbelief, "like devil worship?"

"As unbelievable as it seems, yes," Holmes sighed, "our kidnapper is practicing dark crafts and the four victims of Parliament are not the end."

"Excuse me?" Anderson came charging back in the room, having heard the last bits of their conversation. He was fuming with anger and looking for any reason to have Sherlock Holmes thrown into the psychiatric ward, "the psychopath has taken it too far!"

"Sit down, Anderson," John shook his head, "hear him out."

"We always do, don't we? All we do is listen to Sherlock speak all day long and take his word like it's gospel!"

"As you should," Holmes turned on the forensic analyst, his lip curling, "can you honestly believe you can solve this case by Thursday before the next Parliament meeting, with all four victims safe and sound at home, and a kidnapper in jail?"

"Everyone calm down," Butler interfered, stepping in between the two, "Sherlock, I'd like to hear what you have to say."

Anderson rolled his eyes and turned his back as Sherlock utilized the desk in front of him. He spread out the large map of London on the tabletop where it was already marked with red circles and dots from before.

"As you can see, I marked the last locations our victims were spotted at. These were planned all around Westminster Palace at the heart of the pentagram."

"Pentagram?" Donovan questioned, "What pentagram?"

"Let me show you," Sherlock grabbed a thick felt pen from the desk, "victim #1 was kidnapped near the Royal Festival Hall. Victim #2 near Buckingham Palace," the consulting detective drew a thick black line connecting the two, "victim #3 at Lambeth Palace," he drew a line between Buckingham and Lambeth, "and victim #4 at the Royal Academy," he drew a line connecting Lambeth and the Academy, "are you starting to see it?"

"Oh my god," John's eyes widened.

"Unbelievable," Butler gaped.

"He's creating a pentagram around the Palace of Westminster," Sally's voice was filled with awe and horror, "using London like it's some sort of _game board_."

"Yes, but as you can see, he isn't done," Sherlock continued, "our kidnapper has four out of the five points of the star fulfilled," the detective brought the felt tip to the paper again, "and when you continue to cross the lines," he drew two sharp long strokes across the map, and they met up at one point.

"Tate Gallery," Watson spoke.

"Tate Gallery," Sally echoed in disbelief, "t-this is impossible."

"It's not impossible," Sherlock looked up with harsh eyes, "just unbelievable."

"Before we continue, Mr. Holmes," Holland held up his hands, wiping his brow, "how are you convinced this is a ritual for sure"

"Because of the evidence collected at the scenes," he went over to a few of the evidence bags, "he's using deceased animal parts from their carcasses. Bones of a cat, feathers of a chicken, innards of a dog, so on. Also, he is using various insect and plant types such as spiders, worms, maggots, roaches, flies, mushrooms, fungi. These are common items used in black magic crafting. In white or grey magic you refrain from using animal remains or using any dead animal material at all, but black magic crafters are open to any sort of material to complete their rituals," Sherlock held up the plastic bags with emaciated remains of dead animals, torn plants and herbs, and preserved insects.

"That's sick," Anderson's nose wrinkled, "absolutely disgusting."

"Some would think so," Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "but to this man, he is cleansing."

"Cleansing?" that struck a chord in John, "elaborate, please."

"Obviously his ritual is to please a certain god or holy being in his own crafts, but those victims being members of Parliament is more symbolic. He's trying to send a message to not only his own people, but to the people of the world that the British government is something that needs to be disinfected and rebuilt."

"Is this some sort of twisted joke?" Sally gawked, "He's taking the power of democracy to a whole different level!"

"The power of democracy allows for people to tear down and reappoint a new governing body if they feel their old one is oppressing them," Butler spoke quietly, his brows a straight line, "it's a one-man coup d'état."

"A coup d'état?" Anderson's mouth dropped, "I hope this man understands that Napoleon Bonaparte lived a long time ago and if he's unhappy with the government, he complain about it like the rest of England does, not perform some _satanic_ ritual."

"Yes, well you can try telling him that yourself, Anderson," John rolled his eyes, "some people just have a different…incentive."

"Forget that," Sherlock shook his head, "Butler, you know what we have to do now. Tate Gallery needs maximum protection. The kidnapper doesn't know we've cracked the code now, he won't be expecting it."

"What?" Anderson shouted, "are you listening to him? Our entire forces should be protecting the Palace of Westminster, not waiting for our kidnapper to fulfill his _fifth_ kidnapping while we just sit around and wait."

"We won't be waiting, the Yard forces will move in the moment our kidnapper strikes!"

Sally had an unsure look on her face, "Sherlock, this does seem a bit outlandish. I agree with you, but it's not logical to send our entire troops on a whim. Imagine our bosses, what would they think?"

"Who cares what they think," Sherlock sneered, "you are going on a suicide mission if that meeting continues on Thursday and that fiend is still running around terrorizing the streets of London," Holmes pointed to the window where the hustle and bustle of the city whirred below, "how can you see the reason in that?"

"Because there is actual work for the police to do if we protect our governing body, Holmes," Anderson spat, "I'm calling Lestrade, he'll listen to what's right."

Sherlock stood in his way, his tall form towering over Phillip, "And what makes you think a forensic analyst has more say than an actual consulting detective?"

"You made up the bloody job, try showing me some credentials!"

"I can show you all the legal Yard documents of cases I've solved instead," Sherlock growled.

"Sherlock?"

Holmes stiffened as he heard the soft voice of his best friend.

"Yes, Watson?" he said curtly, not moving away from Anderson.

"I think he's right."

The detective froze. Anderson smiled below him and he turned around to see John's head bowed.

"What?" Sherlock said quietly at first.

"I think Anderson is right," Watson glared at the beaming forensic analyst, "being in the army, it's always been wiser to send your forces to where there can be a guarantee attack. We don't know for certain if our kidnapper is going to show at Tate Gallery."

"We don't know if he's going to show at Parliament either," Sherlock countered.

"But our kidnapper has a reputation of abducting members from Parliament. Now that there has been the threat of a fifth, you can be sure that the Yard superior officers will order maximum protection of Westminster rather than Tate Gallery, Sherlock, I-I'm sorry," his tone was calm and mellow, his eyes full of pity.

"But..?"

"No, you heard him," Sally said sternly, but her eyes were sad, "Sherlock, we'll be telling our superior officers that Parliament is going to be the next target for our kidnapper. Do we all agree?"

"Yes," Anderson said eagerly.

"Yes," John hesitated but finally agreed.

All eyes turned to Butler who's hand was resting on his chin.

"Before I give my answer, I'd like to hear a little more of Sherlock's reasoning," Holmes was shocked upon hearing this like the rest of the group, "he's put up a reasonable argument so far, it would be unjust of me to not listen to him further."

"You're kidding, right?" the analyst scoffed.

"Absolutely not," the Scottish accent was stern, "please, continue, Mr. Holmes."

"Westminster Palace and its surrounding areas are crawling with employees, members of Parliament, and high-office officials," Sherlock began, a little disheartened at first but wanting to get his point across, "but our kidnapper could be staking it for days, hell, he could be at Tate Gallery right now. Our advantage is that he doesn't know about our discoveries. Also, he marks each scene with a remain from one of his own crafts," he gestured to the bags full of carcasses.

"There were no animal remains at the flat," John interrupted.

"Yes, there was," Anderson answered, "we we're doing the sweep and I convinced Lestrade to do a full-blown investigation of the whole flat because both doors were open to your building. We found a rabbit's foot outside along with some strange herbs."

John shivered. He couldn't believe that psycho kidnapper defiled their property with dead animal remnants. Butler looked like he was going to be sick.

"So, he marks his scenes _after_ he kidnaps his victims," Sally shook her head, "that's not going to help us too much."

"Sherlock, just give it up," John sighed, feeling like he was betraying his friend, "you've done excellent progress on this case, no one can blame you if you're tired-"

"Tired?" Holmes' eyes widened in anger, "You of all people should know, John, that my lack of rest has _nothing_ to do with this case."

"Holmes-" Anderson began.

"No," Holland raised a hand, "it's alright," he sighed, "Sherlock, I believe you, I honestly do, but from my a police standpoint it would be more comfortable to focus our strength on protecting the Palace of Westminster on Thursday for the Parliament meeting."

He was silent for a good minute, looking at everyone in turn with a glare of disappointment.

"I say, with regret," Butler concluded, "that we will not be moving in on Tate Gallery, I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes."

The consulting detective gathered himself, pulling his coat collar up on his neck, "Understandable, detective," he walked to the door and stopped. He turned to see the group staring at him as he was to go, John in particular, "send an officer down to Baker Street when the _fifth_ has occurred."

"Unbelievable," Phillip rolled his eyes as the door closed. He turned around and started to take with Sally about arrangements with Lestrade. Butler let loose a deep breath he was holding in, his eyes downcast. John didn't look away from the door that smacked shut against its frame. He was a traitor to his friendship, but this seemed a more logical reason. With stories going around about rituals, pentagrams, and God knows what else, he felt there had to be a solid point they could focus on. Even if that meant turning his back on his best friend.

It was that Wednesday evening where Sherlock finally understood who stood by him. Absolutely no one. John was conflicted, Anderson was a pain, Sally was ignorant, and Butler was just doing his job. Whatever, he could do this himself. He wasn't going to go crying to Mycroft or Lestrade and order for them to see reason. They couldn't. It wasn't his fault their small brains couldn't grasp around the concept of logic.

It was windy and gloomy, a regular day in London. He was standing outside the entrance of Tate Gallery, his coat pulled high up to cover his face. Sherlock was adamant about his assumptions. The kidnapper was going to appear and kidnap another member from this gallery and if the Yard was too dull to see reason, then it was up to him to do it.

So far the crowd seemed usual. Usually boring. Tourists posed in front of everything with a nameplate, employees buzzed about, and the air grumbled with the comings of a storm. His blue eyes scanned the crowd like rapid machine gunfire. He was looking for any suspicious character, anyone whose gaze lingered on someone for a second too long, anyone who could be the alleged kidnapper.

There.

In the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw it. A man dressed in a navy jacket with slick brown hair just dropped his newspaper on the floor intentionally. His gaze followed a young woman who was sashaying away towards a booth. She was tall, beautiful, and had a good figure along with taste in clothing. He followed her, Holmes followed him. Like a shadow, the consulting detective swerved around approaching tourists like a speedboat in a tidal wave. His eyes were focused in on the man who followed the woman from a good distance, his hands in his pockets. There was a satchel slung across his shoulder, probably to carry his handy supply of dead animal carcasses. She took a quick left to the powder room and the man followed trying to be nonchalant. He scratched his head and looked away as she turned around and stepped inside. Sherlock kept an even pace with him as he stood in front of the ladies room. The detective stopped and cursed. His suspect was blatantly perusing the woman's restroom as ladies stepped in and out. He would try and catch a glimpse from the small opening of the door as it swung open and close. It wasn't the kidnapper, just a Peeping Tom.

Holmes growled and stepped away. He needed a smoke. His brain was crowded with thoughts, ideas, and speculations. Sherlock took a small turn around a pillar, hiding himself from the mob of people. He welcomed the silence, it gave him a place to think. No one was there, just him and the gloomy air. For all he knew, anyone could be the kidnapper. Maybe he was wrong after all. Maybe the kidnapper wouldn't show-

A cloth was pressed against his nose and mouth.

Sherlock's eyes widened and realization struck him like ice cold water. There was a man pressed against him, a chloroform napkin crushed against his face. The detective thrashed and tried to flee, his tall form a usual advantage, but something sharp and painful erupted in his side. He groaned through the cloth against his mouth and slid to his knees as blood dribbled from the flesh wound in his side.

It had to be the kidnapper, who else would it be? There was deep gruff English voice in his ear.

"Don't move or the knife won't go into your side next time."

Sherlock didn't have time to process or register. His vision was fading in and out as the drugging effects of the sedative caught up to him. He was semi-thankful for it as it dulled the pain of his numbing wound. There was an arm pressed against his throat to cut off his windpipe, make sure he didn't scream. Sherlock felt his eyelids start to close. All he saw before him was a black gloved hand in a dark leather jacket. However, the jacket did peek up a little during the struggle to reveal a star shaped tattoo on the thumb.

A clue.

In his last few moments of consciousness, Sherlock was thrown to the floor as sleep was washing over him. He heard footsteps recede a little and a car door being opened. Now was his chance as the kidnapper was away. Above him was a large potted plant, beautiful flowers growing out of it. Sherlock gripped the edge for dear life and threw a scoop of dirt in the floor. With his finger, he sloppily traced the outline of what he hoped looked like a star. The message was covertly hidden behind the brass pot and he felt powerful arms pick him up by the armpits. His blue eyes were closing, his vision foggy, and his brain numb as the leather cushion of the backseat collided with the back of his head and he was out for good.

Sherlock Holmes had been kidnapped.

 **Chapter 10 will be released soon!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Sorry for the delay! Here's the next chapter! Enjoy and please let me know what you think!**

John slammed the door behind him in exhaustion as he entered his flat, throwing his leather coat on the rack and flopping down on the couch. He was at the Yard helping the detective and officers figure out a strategic plan to go about their current situation with the kidnapper and the Parliament meeting in less than 48 hours. He was able to stay per Lestrade's request because of his military background and his knowledge on missions and positioning. Now he was back at the flat, but it was empty.

Where was Sherlock?

He had left long before John when his notion that Tate Gallery was the next target was shot down by the team. He was probably out on some crazy hunt for clues and evidence, right? That was the most likely option. Watson felt his head falling and he opened his eyes to see he was sleeping in his sitting position. John kicked off his shoes, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. Sherlock would be back and he'd update him on the case.

The consulting detective would love to hear it.

Sherlock's body bolted upright as he felt himself tied down in a chair. His body felt cold, damp, but his mind was burning. His usual intellectual composure was abandoned as thousands of thoughts flooded his head at once. He knew exactly what happened. Tate Gallery, chloroform, and then the backseat of a car. Sherlock was the fifth kidnapping. He didn't know if it was intentional or by accident, but the sacrifice could happen now.

Holmes looked around him. He was in a dark, messy room. Around him sat four terrified people. Four people whose faces he memorized from their files at Scotland Yard.

 _The kidnapped Parliament members._

Around his mouth was a gag that refrained him from speaking, but his eyes went to work.

The people around him looked relieved in their condition, they recognized him. Sherlock didn't know how he was going to be much help in this. In all honesty, a part of him was actually excited he was here. Now they were getting somewhere! He knew how the kidnapper moved now, how he did it, what he did, where they were, how it felt. It was a whole new inside perspective on the case, it was thrilling. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and pounded in his ears; the surreal feeling he loved when he was neck deep in a case. The life and death gamble was the most intriguing part of his career, a reason why he chose it. What was life without a little risk? What was detective work without getting your hands dirty?

There were muffled cries coming from the victims in front of him, but to his right one of the men dipped his head down and worked the gag off his mouth.

It was a harsh whisper that hit his ears as his eyes were adjusting to the unknown darkness, "You're Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?"

Holmes' eyes looked in question at how he was able to take his gag out.

The man understood, "I did this a few days ago, first one here," Sherlock saw that his eyes were tired and defeated. He accepted his fate of death, "He doesn't know yet though. Answer my question, are you Holmes?"

He nodded once.

There were a few relieved cries from the people around him from behind their gags.

"Thank the bloody heavens," the man was so relieved, his voice cracked, "we need to get out of here. This man is sick, sick I tell you. He does these weird rituals, droning on about sacrifices, and how he's going to _cleanse_ the world," he closed his eyes and took a breath, "do the cops know where you are? Are they coming for us?"

Sherlock looked around at the kidnapped victims in front of him. Sherlock was their only glimmer of hope, the only contact from the outside world they'd known since their disappearance. He could lie to comfort them, to keep their cooperation, earn their trust.

Holmes shook his head.

"Damn," the man cursed under his breath and turned his head, "I thought you were sent here as a trap for him."

 _Smart thinking,_ Sherlock thought. He should've brought it up to Lestrade.

Holmes rolled his eyes in frustration at his inability to speak. He started to move his chin and mouth to work the gag out. It started to slip off his skin and finally his lips poked through the cloth.

"Why is no one here to help us!?" in the man's panic, his voice started to rise and Sherlock was nervous wherever the kidnapper was, he might hear.

"Shut up!" Sherlock ordered, his eyes darting to the door. He must've understood, because the desperation in his face was replaced by fear, "I came alone, I was looking for the next victim, but-"

"But you became that unlucky bastard instead," there was pity in all of their eyes. Sherlock hadn't thought of it like that. In his mind, he wasn't the victim, he fortunate enough to be cued in on the kidnapper's motives and techniques.

"What's he look like?" Sherlock started shooting questions like bullets, "What does he do? Are his rituals often? Does he involve you in any ritualistic actions? Does he use animal remains?"

"Um, yes," his neighbor tried to sort through the questions in his head, "he's tall, dark haired fellow, light skin, definitely English. He's s-sick, he uses animal remains and does these…chants," the man shivered, "we're forced to watch, or else," his eyes darted to one of the woman gagged in the far corner.

"But what about them?" Sherlock repeated urgently, time was limited, "Has he said anything about his plans? What does he know, what do you observe?"  
"Observe? Are you mad?" His eyes widened, "I try to get through the day alive, I don't spend my living moments concentrating on his twisted rituals!"

"I am your only way of getting out of this at this point," Sherlock's voice got serious, "and I'm not planning to be cooked like roast on Thanksgiving when he comes back for his sacrifice, understood?"

"Sacrifice?" the Parliament member's voice rose in panic, "H-he's planning a sacrifice?!"  
"Shh!"

"Wha-why didn't you say something?!" he started struggling in his chair, "when is he? Who is being sacrificed?! I need to get out of here!"

Sherlock cursed as he heard a large heavy metallic creak outside their room. Their quarters were dead silent as the panicked Parliament member now was as frozen as ice, his features in a state of perpetual fear. Sherlock looked around and saw the rest of the victims quivering and shaking. This wasn't good. He stooped down with his chin and readjusted the gag over his mouth like before. The man next to him saw Holmes and suddenly remembered the absence of the cloth on his own face and struggled to fit it back on; in his own panic and nervousness, he was too late. The door slowly creaked open. Sherlock squinted against the blacker darkness as a shadowy figure stood in the doorway. His icy blue eyes focused in on a tall man with broad shoulders, a jacket suited on his upper body, and dark hair.

"What," came the cold, slithering voice, "is going on in here?"

"Uh-uh, um," the man stuttered, his mouth unable to form the coherence of the fear manipulating his brain, "p-please-"

"How," he continued, "did you take that off?"

The Parliament member's eyes flitted back and forth from the gag hanging limply on his neck and back at his kidnapper, "No-no, I-I don't know-"

"Stop lying to me," the English voice was forceful.

"You can't do this to us!" Sherlock shook his head inwardly, "You can't keep us here like animals!"

"I," the kidnapper took two fluid steps forward, his voice calm but freezing, "can do whatever I please, and there is _nothing_ you can do about it."

"I-I," his confidence abated as the kidnapper placed two strong hands on the arms of his wooden chair, "didn't say-"

"That's absolutely right," his voice became more forceful, "you didn't say anything, you shouldn't have said anything. You had no right to interrupt, you had no right to take _this_ off," he gripped the cloth in his fingers and yanked hard, choking his victim, "do you understand?"

Sherlock's case victim was going purple in the face, his eyes popping, gargling sounds tearing through his throat. It wasn't until the eyes rolled back into his head and the kidnapper's fingers were shaking that he let go and the man's head slumped down against his chest in unconsciousness.

"Now," he lifted his head up, a sliver of light shining on his face, "anyone else? How about you, Mr. Holmes?"

If the consulting detective's mouth wasn't hidden behind a gag, it would've dropped open. Before him was a man with dark brown hair, a regular build, and a face he had worked with before. One he was interested in when it came into his flat and admitted to a false murder. One who claimed to be a Scotchman working as a hired detective by Scotland Yard. Detective Holland Butler.

Sherlock's gaze hardened like stone and he wiggled the gag from his chin like he did before.

"Butler," he spat like it was vomit.

"Sherlock," the kidnapper leaned back with a smile, like he was starting a story, "what brings you here?"

"Believe me, I'm usually as far away from trash as I can be," he snarled, but looked down at his ropes, "but looks like I'm a little tied up now."

"Hmm," Butler nodded, "seems that way. You always did love insulting me, didn't you?"

"It was an enjoyable pass time."

"You have a good crack you can throw at me now, Sherlock?" Holland raised his eyebrows, "Because if you do I'd love to hear it."

"You know what I'd love to hear?"

"What?"

"Why."

"Why? You know why."

"Remind me."

"This world is infected, Sherlock, poisoned by its own greed, self-indulgence, and lies," Holland growled as he paced around his victims, all of them were watching him like scared animals, "if our own governing body can't fix it, what makes you think it'll ever change?"

"There are better ways to do this, Holland, not with pentagrams and chloroform!"

"What are you suggesting, Holmes?" Butler chuckled bitterly, "that I go around and vote like everyone else? Like that matters! We are still polluting, we are still self-centered, we are still never going to change the pompous ways of our society to fix it to our betterment!"

"Oh, John was telling me you said this the night you _broke into our flat,_ if you forgot? He told me you were a psychopath, and that I'd catch you," Holmes laughed mockingly.

"Wrong!" the kidnapper growled, he took a breath and composed himself, "that word, psychopath, you get it tossed at you a lot, don't you?"

Sherlock's jaw clenched. He _hated_ that word-despised it.

"By Anderson," Butler had a smug smile on his lips, "Donovan, Lestrade, even John sometimes, right?"

Sherlock tugged at his bonds with effort, his anger rising.

"I bet you hate it, you hate the fact that just because they can't understand or see as clear as you, they call you for it," Holland walked slowly around his chair, "you are labeled as a freak of nature, an anomaly only used to solve a few cases then dumped back into your room like a child. You can't stand it."

"Enough," Sherlock said under his breath angrily.

"You are glad to be here, Sherlock, when push comes to shove you'd rather be on the other side of the playing field then at home with John, being paraded around by a fake team, babysitted by your landlady, and bossed around by your older brother."

"Stop!" Sherlock threw himself against the chair, his whole body burning with fury, "You're wrong! You have no idea who I am, you have no idea what I do!"

"Sherlock, I know everything about you, but you do not even know an _ounce_ about me," Butler laughed, "you were too caught up in your own greatness to even give old Holland Butler a wink, ha! What a name I chose, and that Scottish accent too," he converted his speech to that he used to play them all as a Scotchman, "I think I perfected it pretty well."

"You're a snake, Butler, a moron, and I will get out of this and see you trudge to prison in shackles for the rest of your life-"

Sherlock's speech was cut off by a hard right hook to his cheek. He felt blood pool in the inside of his mouth, a bruise already starting to form on his zygomatic bone.

"Did I say you could speak?!"

Sherlock was feeling for any loose teeth with his tongue and spat out the blood on the floor. It splattered against the ground, the thick red liquid almost hitting Butler's polished shoes.

"Listen carefully, Sherlock," Butler came up again and stood next to his face, Holmes turned his cheek a little, the disgust too much to bear, "you are the cleverest man I've ever met, a born genius. Every step of the way I examined how you would deduct and find clues out of the impossible. Let me tell you, even I was becoming a little nervous there! Your audacity, your will, your curiosity drives you to these lengths and look where you are now," Holland laughed, "so when you said Tate Gallery, I froze. That was my last destination, it was my last stop before the ritual was complete and I knew who my victim was, I knew when they were going to be there too! But alas," he stood behind Sherlock now, his hands resting on his long shoulders, "you interfered, yet again," from behind, Butler held a small piece of wood the size of his palm. He had picked it up off the floor and he reared his hand back, brought it down, and slammed the side of the detective's head with it. There was no mercy in his actions, no sympathy in his eyes, and anger coursing through his body. Holmes yelled in shock and pain, blood started to pour from the gash on his right temple, and his vision was criss-crossed for a little. He didn't know for how long, but he kept his pupils squinted shut tightly, the noise around him was an incessant ringing that echoed through his skull like bells. There was no movement around him, no taunting voices, no scared whispers.

A head injury was bad. Sherlock didn't know the extent of it, he probably didn't until the _animal_ in front of him left. He didn't feel that would be soon, but Butler was waiting for him. But there was a new pain that started to course through his central nervous system. Sherlock hissed in pain as his throbbing head emphasized a wound in his side. The fogginess with the chloroform and the hard hit to his temple made it a little murky, but he remembered sustaining a flesh injury with a knife on his side on the scene of the kidnapping.

"Oof," Butler mocked, "that hurts, doesn't it?"

Sherlock scrunched his eyes, trying to wait for the wave of fresh pain to subside, but it was like a lingering thorn buried into his flank. He was unconscious for a period of unknown time, he didn't know how much blood he lost, but with the new injury to his temple, there wasn't much time.

"Let me tell you what's going to happen, Holmes," Butler walked in front of the other victims, sliding his finger under the neck of one of the women who shivered, tears sliding down her cheeks, "tomorrow is the Parliament meeting, and thanks to your stellar team, all of the Scotland Yard reinforcements are going to be at the Palace of Westminster. That gives me the perfect opportunity to continue with the ritual; four members of British Parliament, how savory. It's a juicy story, so symbolic, don't you think? But even better, the great Sherlock Holmes, the catcher of crimes, the undeterrable detective, will be one of the five in the ceremony. Think how England would react? It would be utter chaos, a necessary evil to cleanse our infected foundations and rise up from the ground anew."  
"Are you," Sherlock panted, blood oozing from the crown of his head and wetness soaking his thick overcoat, "listening to yourself? This is a lost cause, Butler, and even though my argument may not have been so convincing to Watson and the others," Holmes cringed, his voice strained, "at least you can live with the fact that someone out there discovered your secret."

"No one has discovered me yet, Sherlock, not even you," his face darkened with fury.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock cleared his throat, "When you abducted me, there was a star tattoo on your wrist, hinting your allegiance to some dark clan or black craft organization. Your shirt smells of cracked, old leather, similar to the jacket you wear at the scene of the crime, I also whiffed it a few times in our flat and at the Yard. Under your fingernails are strays of black cloth from the gloves you wear during the kidnappings. Your Scottish accent was a little strange, and your story was just laughable. You carry the same blade you stabbed John with along with myself, tut tut, it's bad to repeat," he flinched as he looked down. It wasn't as bad as Watson's wound as it was a small pierce to his skin, but it still hurt like hell, "Did you really believe that I could be convinced that you were handpicked by the Scotland Yard association just by being a PI in Scotland at a small firm? Please, I thought it was to boost your self-esteem, noticeable in the way you stare at Sergeant Sally Donovan who has eyes for Anderson, regrettably. When I stole your badge, your birth month was April, labeling you under the Gemini astrological sign which, conveniently, is the twin symbol. That means you have two sides, or you act differently in front of people than your actual self. When presenting the animal remnants in the evidence bags, you were the least affected by the sight, unlike Watson, Anderson, or Donovan. And, if I do remember correctly which I do, you came into my flat donning an English accent when presenting the false murder riddle to me. So, Butler, you're telling me I don't notice you because of your insignificance or banal appearance, I notice _everything,_ nothing escapes my eye. Not even you."

"Impossible, Sherlock, you're clever, but tell me that during the investigation you knew it was absolutely me," Holland laughed, "even the Great Sherlock Holmes was fooled."

"I had my doubts," Holmes tried to stand tall.

"Too late, Holmes. You should've told poor Watson where you were going, he's at home worried sick like an old maid, I bet. But that look of betrayal I saw on your face when he didn't support your notions, oh," Butler's face was alive with delight and amusement, "it must've tore your small, little heart. Maybe I'll pop back in for a visit, for old time's sake."

"Don't you even go near him!" Sherlock lunged forward in his seat and snarled. He didn't care about the protests his temple and his abdomen were expressing. He had hurt John enough, never again.

"He has a soft spot, doesn't he-"

There was a commotion from the far corner of the room. One of the bound women was struggling against her ropes, her features screwed up in anger and effort. Something was coming from behind her gag, a series of muffled screams and calls.

"Oh, what is it now?" Butler rolled his eyes and walked towards her. He pulled the blade from his pocket and she froze. Her entire body was still, but instead he cut the gag from around her mouth.

"Leave him alone!" she erupted like a volcano, even Butler stooped back in surprise, "neither of us did anything, but he's trying to help us! You say you worked with this man, then you know him, right? Don't you even feel an ounce of remorse?! He's helped people every day and I'm not going to sit around here while you _torment_ him because of your sick, twisted principles!" she spat, "whatever you plan to do, do it to me!"

Another man next to her nodded as well, his eyes filled with determination.

Sherlock's neighbor who was unconscious and choked woke up with a bruised neck and wheezing cough, but he nodded too. The other woman as well.

"Look at this, Holmes, heartwarming, isn't it?" Butler cooed, "tell you what, you all want this man to be spared?" he looked to his other captured victims.

"That's right," the girl's voice was firm and tough.

"This isn't one of your meetings, you don't _get_ to say what you want or don't want!" the kidnapper growled, "this is my house, my rules, my Parliament!" his eyes were glowing like fire, "and here's what I say…"

Butler picked up a crowbar from the floor and advanced towards Sherlock.

 **Chapter 11 will be released soon!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Sorry if there are some complications with the chapters, I don't know why :( but hope you all can keep reading and leave me some love! Thanks!**

John startled awake. Light was peeking through the windows, the sunlight illuminating the dust mites wandering through the air. He rubbed his eyes and cracked his back after the uncomfortable sleep on the couch for the night. Watson finally got his bearings back, the flat was quiet. He jumped off the sofa and looked around. There was no mess, no tea overboiling on the stove, that meant no Sherlock.

Where was he?  
Watson ran up the stairs to his bedroom. The sheets were nicely made, the coat wasn't in the closet, the room was untouched. There were no lab experiments cooking on the stove or preserved items in the fridge.

"Mrs. Hudson," he called down the steps, not wanting to alarm her yet.

"Yes, dear, what is it?" the landlady called sweetly from flat 221A.

"Did Sherlock come around at all last night?" his senses were on edge, there was something wrong.

"Sherlock? No," she shook her head trying to remember, "you came up and no one else. The hour was late, he was probably sleeping."

"Right, right, of course," even though John knew that wasn't true. Sherlock wasn't in the flat last night, "Thank you."

"Is everything all right, John?" a look of worry crossed her face.

"No, no, it's fine, everything is fine, we're all fine," he spoke quickly, "got to pop out really quick, sorry," he ran back into the flat and lunged for his mobile. No texts, no calls.

"You're just overreacting, John," he tried to calm himself, but a cold feeling of dread was spreading up from his stomach, "he's probably off on some wild hunt, he'll be back soon."

He tried calling Holmes, it went straight to voicemail. He cursed at the consulting detective, _why does he have to do things like this?_ He remembered Sherlock's wild pleas on sending the Yard officers to Tate Gallery rather than the Palace. Watson would start there, he was probably camping out there all night the silly bastard. John got his coat from the hanger and ran down the stairs.

The cab he hailed screeched to a stop in front of the gallery. He threw a twenty and jumped out. Tourists were crowding, the streets were specially heavy with traffic because of the Parliament meeting in less than a few hours. He needed to find Sherlock quickly. John scoured the area, looking for any sign of his friend. His already implemented doubts were growing; Holmes had been gone nearly 24 hours ago. Why would he be here? John flagged down a service member, stating his position with Scotland Yard as a detective, and ordered to see the security monitors. The man obliged and took John through a series of hallways and managers to the security station. He explained himself once more and had them pull up the feed from the day before.

"There!" John pointed to the unmistakable coat with the curly mop of hair poking from the top, "That's him!"

"I remember this bloke from yesterday," one of the security staffed huffed, "he did a lot of snooping around, bout to call him in."

"He's a detective too," Watson defended his best friend, "a damn good one, he was out on a job."

"Job? Here? We got the finest security in the world-"

"Wait, move in," the former army doctor squinted his eyes as Sherlock ducked past a corner and away from the main cameras, "pull up another camera."

"Can't," the man ate a chip bag noisily and obnoxiously, John's temper rose, "the private sector footage gets sent back."

"Sent back? Back where?"

"Look like I know?" the security officer dumped the last of the crumbs of the bag in his throat, a few sticking to his unkempt mustache.

John rolled his eyes and left without a goodbye or thank you. He slammed the door shut behind him and walked back to the main corridor; John looked around for the direction Holmes had been walking in and he headed off. In front of him was the corner they lost sight of him and he jogged past it.

Nothing but a large planter and the exterior wall of Tate Gallery.

"Hey, you! You can't go there, it's private!" a security officer was approaching him fast. That's right, this was the private sector.

John rolled his eyes and sagged his shoulders. His worry gnawed at him like a hungry dog. Where could Sherlock be? Why did he have to go do this?

Out of the corner of his eye, John spotted a dot of red. Immediately, his senses kicked in. He knelt down closer to it and examined. Definitely blood. If he was worried about Sherlock before, it was nothing compared to the sky rocket of dread that erupted through Watson like a volcano. John was a doctor long enough to know about blood, it was near 24 hours old and it was just a few drops from a larger wound. That scared him even more. He heard the footsteps grow closer and John stared at the dried substance, petrified.

"You, there! You deaf?! This is a private area, no tourist zone-"

"Shut up," John said hastily.

"What?" the officer was startled.

"Quick, I need water and a cotton swab, now."

"Water and a-? You got a problem, mate?!"  
"I hope not," John shook his head, "hurry, go! Cotton swab, water, no time to lose!"

"Why?" the officer narrowed his eyes, holding his baton in his hand and batting his palm with it.

"Because this is a scene of a kidnapping," Watson felt the relief of getting the assumption off his chest, "get what I need now, and phone DI Lestrade of Scotland Yard while you're at it."

The security officer turned tail and ran.

There were tears streaming down the face of the captive woman in the corner. She turned her head away as blow after blow landed on the famous detective Sherlock Holmes. This wasn't what she wanted. She wanted to defend him, but in the long run she just hurt him even more. That's what happened when you dealt with a remorseless psychopath. But it's not like she had much practice with them either.

"Please stop," she whimpered as Sherlock's body flinched away from each blow with the heavy metal crowbar. Tied down in his chair, it didn't do much good. The metal banged against his skin like a drumstick. He knew that it wasn't hard enough for internal bleeding, but no doubt purple and black bruises would be coloring his body in a few hours. The blood from his temple was oozing to a stop, the dried liquid clinging to his hair and skin. Due to the crowbar hitting his skin, his stab wound to the side wasn't able to escape the onslaught. Blood dripped from the coat and down his pant leg, forming a pool on the floor,

"He's going to die!" she screamed as Holmes started to lose consciousness.

"Die?" Butler laughed, wiping the sweat off his brow, "This one? Not without solving his precious case first, isn't that right, Sherlock?"

Holland tilted the limp head of the detective back with the crowbar. His jaw was clenched, every breath a wheeze, but his frosty blue eyes looked dead into the eyes of Butler, emotionless.

"Pah," the kidnapper snarled and looked at his watch as he roughly let Holmes' head go, "look at that, time flies. I'd best be off now, Mr. Holmes," he smiled, tapping the crowbar against the wooden chair as he circled Sherlock. The detective tried to scan and look for him, unable to move his neck without bringing a flurry of pain to the rest of his body, "but I'll be back, and then the fun can really start."

He threw the crowbar across the room, it clanged against the wall and clattered against the floor. Butler went around to all his bound sacrifices and checked their ropes, tightening the loose ones. He hesitated in front of the woman who protested in Sherlock's favor.

"You like him?" he pointed to Holmes who looked at them with a beaten face but alert eyes, "You want to protect him?"

She nodded.

"How can you do that if you can't even protect yourself," he whispered darkly into her ear, a shiver visibly went up her body.

Butler walked to the doorway, staring at the shaking woman.

"When I come back, I'll make sure you're sacrificed first."

The metal door banged shut with such a force it made them all flinch. Sherlock groaned and tried to move his body but pain washed over him whatever he did. He knew the woman in the corner wanted to help him, they all did, but it still didn't stop the attack with the crowbar. His mind was foggy, his temple was pounding, his side was burning, and his entire body felt like it had been run over by a truck repeatedly. Never in his career did he believe it would get to this point, but it had. He wasn't untouchable, he wasn't invincible. All he hoped for was Watson's safety as the end loomed ever nearer to Sherlock and his Captured Companions.

"Watson, what's this?" John heard the bemused but questioning voice of Lestrade as he was followed with a few officers to Tate Gallery.

"Lestrade," he sighed in relief, "did you get what I asked?"

"Cotton swab and water?" Greg shrugged and took them from the hand of one of his men, "if I didn't know any better, you're creating an amateur crime scene."

"Correct," he said, firmly.

"Excuse me?" Lestrade was taken aback, "What?"

"Lestrade," John breathed. He needed to keep control, he needed to stay in check of his emotions if he was going to get his friend back, "I-I think Sherlock was kidnapped by our man."

"W-what?!" the detective inspector choked, he turned from side to side and moved in closer to Watson, "John, this is _confidential_ , if you're going to make an absurd conclusion like this then at least have the _decency_ to say it in my office-"

"Listen to me, Lestrade," he scrubbed the cotton swab on the floor as the water moistened the fluid, "Sherlock didn't come home yesterday, he's been gone nearly 24 hours. I came by to Tate Gallery because that was his conclusion of the next kidnapping scene. The footage showed him here yesterday, rounding this corner, and that's all, no sign of him. All I found here was this evidence," he took a deep inhale to catch his breath, "so absurd conclusion? No, more like educated guess, Lestrade."

"Okay, okay," he rubbed the back of his head with his hands, a nervous breath escaping him, "John, you do understand that if-a very big if-Sherlock is kidnapped then we are in major trouble."

"I know," John said shakily as he continued to swab the bloodstain from the floor, "I know."

"Not just for you, Watson, I'm talking about all of England."

"Greg," Watson sighed and closed his eyes, "I've been an invalid for days while he's been running around shoveling the weight of this case and constant criticism. I turned him away once-just _once_ -because I couldn't grasp his unfathomable allegations about pentagrams and black magic and look what happened. Sherlock is gone, Lestrade, and it's up to me to get him back."

"All right, all right," the DI said empathetically, "but not alone," he raised his voice, "okay, get the tarps! I need forensics on this, we have the scene of fifth right here!"

It was a few hours later that John was running with a few security guards through one of London's maximum security buildings. The Parliament meeting was to start at 4 PM and it was 10 AM. That gave him 6 hours to crack the kidnapping case that had taken the whole team (with Sherlock) almost a week to solve. But there was new incentive. Holmes was kidnapped and from his intel, soon to be sacrificed.

"No," John said resolutely under his breath. That wasn't going to happen.

Watson stopped in front of a large chestnut door. It was ornate with a specially carved knob from the finest brass. John barged in.

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft Holmes at the other side of his desk looked up inquisitively at the army doctor, the other half of Sherlock's detective team.

John immediately saw the tightness around his eyes, the forced smile, as the older Holmes didn't appreciate John Watson's intrusion. It didn't matter.

"Mycroft," John began immediately, "I have urgent news."

"Urgent?" Mycroft leaned back in his chair, dropping the pen he was writing with and crossing his legs, "Urgency, such a peculiar feeling, isn't it? Like time is slowing down around you and inner workings of your mind are working at maximum capacity to keep up with a racing heartbeat and pressing situation, no?"

"Wha-no," Watson shook his head, his own irritation rising, "it's about Sherlock."

"Isn't it always?" he retorted, but his rebuke was elegant and classy, John didn't even feel like he was being insulted.

"Maybe so, but it regards _your_ family, Mycroft."

"Family," scoffed Mycroft, "John, I've had siblings and parents, but I would hardly call our little group a family."

"Stop being so evasive, Mycroft," John's temper spiked, "I don't care if your familial issues keep you up at night, this is important."

"So we must resolve what is keeping _you_ up at night, instead?" there was no mocking tone in his voice, just truth.

"Yes," John nodded firmly.

"I see where your priorities lie, Mr. Watson, most people's in fact," Mycroft straightened up in his seat, "always with my little brother, never to be swayed, it's admirable."

"I'm glad you agree," the army doctor continued, "Sherlock has been on the case, as you know-"

"How's your injury faring you, John?" Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

"It's fine," John rolled his eyes, what was with this guy? "but Holmes gave this outrageous notion about sacrifices, and rituals, and pentagrams-"

"Does it hurt?"

"No, it's fine," John jumped over his words again, "as I was saying-"

"When did the doctors discharge you?" the older Holmes continued.

"They didn't, Mycroft! What has gotten into you! Your brother has been kidnapped, his legacy along with it! He's going to die in a few hours and you're sitting here like _your brother_ is a fly! I don't care if you have brotherly issues or don't feel he's family, but he's family to me!"

"Legacy?" Mycroft laughed bitterly, "You talk of my brother's legacy? John, my brother doesn't have a wife, doesn't have kids, or many friends for that matter. It's just me and you. I have hundreds of people come to me everyday pleading the same thing, to save a loved one. I can't do anything about it, Watson, and those people actually do have a legacy. Next of kin, a loyal spouse, and households full of friends, and I can't do anything for them and they actually deserve it. You talk of him like he's a god, dear John, but look down at yourself for a change. While you were running around London trying to whimsically save my little brother, your stitches ripped. There's blood seeping through your shirt, that's why I asked if your injury was better," Mycroft continued as John looked down in shock, "and I knew the doctors didn't discharge you because the wound is too fresh, you haven't fully healed. So you see, you were just pulled from the jaws of death a few days ago, which you were incidentally put into _because_ of my brother, and now you're willing to throw your life on the line because poor little Sherlock is missing. What kind of legacy do you call that?

John paused for a moment, mixed emotions flooding through his body. Mycroft's comfortable position made him even more furious, "He deserves it," Watson spat and turned around towards the door, the red bloodstain on his shirt growing bigger by the second.

"Before you go," Mycroft called and John halted in the doorway, he didn't know why, "this case is an envelope of secrets, Watson, and it's up to you let them out."

Watson turned his head over his shoulder and glared at Mycroft. He was always speaking in riddles, but his eyes glittered mischievously as the door closed.

Mycroft waited for the receding gait of John Watson to lumber down the hall.

Sherlock was kidnapped.

The older Holmes felt his mind flood with thoughts, submerging his logical thinking with memories of Sherlock and him as kids and on.

They were rivals, born enemies, but they were brothers.

Now he was to be sacrificed from what he heard like a lamb on a spit.

Mycroft stood up, his chair drifting away from him a little as he did so, the daily paper in his hands. The black headline informed him of the Parliament kidnapper whose newest victim was celebrity detective Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft crumpled the paper in his hands in silent fury and grief. He threw the contents in the trash, a harsh whisper escaping his lips under his breath, "Sherlock," it held the promise of revenge.

He sat back in his desk, his clenched fist pounded on the table once as his furrowed angry brows and sorrowful expression lasted with him until the few hours before the meeting.

"What did you get out of Mycroft?" Greg approached John as he stormed back into his flat. The DI was waiting there with some files and camera footage to show John. This was private, a solemn time for Watson since his best friend was abducted, but word had somehow gotten to the newspapers. It was sprawled over headlines all over the country of Sherlock Holmes' kidnapping.

"Nothing," John said bitterly, "he doesn't care about Sherlock."

"As reluctant as I am to admit it," Lestrade scratched his neck, "yes, he does."

"I thought so too, Greg, but the Holmes brothers are good actors when they want to put up a show."

"He loves him, John, it's his brother," Lestrade's tone was melancholy.

"Yeah, well he's going to let his brother be killed in," he looked at his watch, "three hours!"

"The years I've known Mycroft there are only three things on this entire planet he actually cares about: his country, his brother, and himself," the DI huffed truthfully, "and he isn't going to let any of those in be put into harms way."

"Lestrade, you didn't hear him," John shook his head, unzipping his jacket, "he doesn't give a lick about anyone but himself, he didn't raise a finger to help."

"What did he-bloody hell, John!" Lestrade surged forward as the huge blood stain on John's pale shirt made him flush white, "what happened!"

"It's nothing," John protested, feeling a little woozy, "my stitches ripped."

"Okay, enough, I'll keep going with the case, you are going to a hospital right now," the DI pulled out his mobile, but Watson lunged for it, holding his flank as he did so.

"No! Lestrade, I've got to find him!"

"Stop beating yourself up on this, Watson, Sherlock is my friend too, but there is no way you are in any shape to be going out looking for him."

"Please," John composed himself, "I'm a doctor, I know what I'm doing. I can put the stitches back into place, I just need your help. That's all I'm asking, Lestrade, I'm begging," Greg saw the desperate look in the former military man's eyes and conceded.

"Fine, what do you need?"

"My kit is in the kitchen, first shelf to the right."

Lestrade returned moments later with the first aid pouch. John pulled out a needle and stitching thread, a glass of water next to him to calm his shaking nerves.

As he wove in an out of the wound, a mild antiseptic coursing through him, Lestrade sat down with a much needed scotch in his hands.

"What did Mycroft say?" he prompted.

John took a few painful breaths before answering, "I can't really say, he's always speaking in riddles."

"Yeah," Lestrade chuckled, taking a sip of his drink, "sounds like him."

"He was talking about urgency and then how everyone always sided with Sherlock and how his brother's "legacy" was something not worth saving."

"Wow," Greg gulped. "tough love."

Watson glared at him, "You have no idea."

"Well, what else?"

"I'm not sure, when I was leaving he said something about an envelope and secrets-"

John stopped short, an idea popping into his mind.

"Watson? John, what is it?" the detective inspector eyed the bloody needle in his hands, "are you okay?"  
"Lestrade, I need to ask you of something."

"Anything."

"Upstairs in Sherlock's room there should be a thick orange envelope, bring it down to me as fast as you can," excitement coursed through his body.

Lestrade bolted out of the chair and up the steep staircase. He barged into Sherlock's room, he was familiar with it because he was one to help carry the big lug when the provocative and clever dominatrix Irene Adler drugged Sherlock. The periodic table on the wall and green wallpaper looked like they had been in their places for years, but surely on the bed was the envelope that John was telling him about. He gripped it in his fingertips and ran down the stairs again, handing it to Watson who was pulling his shirt down as he finished.

"You were right, Greg, you were right," John smiled as he took it from the detective inspector.

"Right about what?"

"Mycroft," John looked at him earnestly, "he did help me, he did."

"How?"  
"The envelope, he mentioned the envelope to me and how it has the secrets, that it's up to me to let them out."

"Okay, but why this envelope in particular?"

"He came to me in the hospital, telling me that it was imperative I give this to Sherlock to solve the case," John scrambled with trying to open the flap, "but I didn't even look at it, the clueless idiot, I am."

"So we are going to find Sherlock through that envelope?" Greg pointed to the orange parcel, doubt in his expression.

"Holmes looked at this and immediately he had a realization," Watson gazed back at the detective inspector, "I'm sure we can too if we put both our minds to it."

"John, we could put a 100 minds to the test and neither of us will ever be able grasp one thought that roams through Sherlock's brain."

"It's worth a try," Watson sighed as he emptied the papers into his hand, taking a deep breath before unfolding the rather large form, "what?"

"What is it?" Greg eyed it from the sidelines.

"It's-I think it's a…map of Scotland?"

"A what?" DI Lestrade scoffed, he sounded like he was almost about to laugh, "a map of Scot-why in the world would he send Sherlock a map of Scotland?"

"I don't know," desperation tainted Watson's tone and Lestrade felt helpless. What kind of detective inspector was he?!

"Look, we can take it back to the Yard, I'll have Anderson do a work up on it and see if there are any encoded messages or hidden secrets with this thing, okay?"

"Alright," John nodded, his tone despairing, "I'll join you."

 **Chapter 12 will be released soon!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Here we are! Another chapter! I'm thinking this story will go up to 15 chapters in total, but we'll see! It's getting down to the nitty-gritty!**

"Wake up, wake up!" Sherlock lifted his head abruptly as annoying voices reached his ears. He looked around and found himself in the hellish room where Holland Butler, the dear detective/kidnapper, was keeping them like meat put aside to roast for sacrifice.

"Mr. Holmes!"

"What?!" he hissed back, his head was pounding like it had never before and his entire body was beaten and exhausted.

"You've lost a lot of blood, sir," the man next to the consulting detective, the one choked earlier by their abductor, had purple bruises painting his neck, "if you sleep, you might die."

Sherlock shook his head in aggravation. Sleep was the only relief he could get from this horror and now he couldn't even do that. The man was right, of course, he could very well slip away in his sleep. But they were all going to die anyway, a peaceful passing was something he'd welcome over a satanic ritual.

"Don't worry, Mr. Holmes," the other man on the opposite side of the room had his gag half on half off his mouth, "the paramedics will be here once they find us."

"Optimism will get you nowhere," Sherlock looked at him while slumped in his chair.

"I'm so very sorry, sir," the woman who tried to protect him had a shaky voice when she addressed him, "I didn't mean for any of this to happen, please forgive me."

He didn't really want to. After all, he was turned away from his friends, kidnapped, beaten bloody, and was about to be involved in black craft rituals because these people had gotten abducted. Essentially, all of this was their fault.

No, it wasn't.

"Quite alright," he flinched, his voice came out like a pained strain as he tried to sit upright, to get the remainder of his blood flowing.

"What hurts?" his neighbor asked him.

Sherlock shot him a glare but abided, "I was stabbed before taken, on my left side."

His eyes were downcast, "The medics will fix that up immediately…"

"Oh, quit it with the paramedics" Holmes bit back, "they aren't coming."

"H-how do you know?"

"You lot have been stuck here for a while, some over a week," he looked at each of them in turn, "what makes you think you'll be found now when-"

He cut off as he leaned forward, a painful moan escaping him as a fresh wave of pain erupted in his chest, blossoming like a new flower.

"Are you alright? Sir?!"

"Does it look like it?!" the woman snapped back, "We need to do something!"

"What can _we_ do?!" the other bound female in the room shouted back, "we've been sitting like this for days!"

"No, we've been waiting around for someone to save us!" her hair fell in her face as she argued, "and now this gentleman here is going to die because we didn't do anything!"

"Shut up!" Sherlock yelled as he tried to push down the pain that was running through him like hot lava, the volcanos being his temple and abdomen, "I'm trying to think!"

They were all silent. The air was dead still as Sherlock squinted his eyes, trying to push past the enveloping pain clouding his mind, trying to formulate a plan. If this were anyone else, it couldn't be done, but this was Sherlock Holmes. It _had_ to be done.

"Butler," he strained, "he dropped the crowbar on his way out, correct?"  
"Yes," a deep voice responded to him, "I'm looking right at it."

"Good, how close?"  
"It's in between us. But a little closer to you."

"Excellent."

"What are you planning?" the woman asked cautiously, careful to mind Sherlock's weakened state.

"Escape," he responded with heavy breaths and opened his eyes. Sherlock craned his neck back resulting in indignant protests from his bleeding temple, but he saw the crowbar sitting a little bit from him.

It was covered in blood-his blood. The haunting sight made him stop for a moment.

"You good, lad?"

"What else is around me? I can't move much."

"Trash, wrappers, all kinds of weird things like wood planks, rope, PVC pipes, glass shards-"

"Glass shards?"

"Yeah, what about them?"  
"How far?"

"Farther behind you?"

"Still near?"

"A little."

"Good, I think I've found a way out, but it's not going to be pleasant."

"Okay, what do we got?" Donovan kept the door open to the office behind her as Phillip Anderson walked through behind her. He was wearing his blue scrubs after coming up from the Lab after an urgent call from Lestrade.

"Donovan, Anderson," Greg greeted them, "where's Butler?"

"He should be here," she looked around quizzically, "probably on his way up."

"Most likely," the DI began as he was leaning over a table with John Watson, "look, we've got our newest piece of evidence on the case."

"New evidence at a crime scene?" Anderson said hopefully as he slapped his latex gloves against his wrists,"Really?"  
"Not exactly," John looked up from the map he was holding, "straight from the desk of Mycroft Holmes."

"Oh, great," Anderson rolled his eyes, "another one."

Donovan nudged him hard in the side.

"As I was saying," Lestrade's voice hardened, "Sherlock got this envelope from Mycroft during the case and later that day he was abducted. There is something in here that can lead us to our kidnapper, all we need to do is decipher it."

"What is it?" Donovan moved closer.

John turned the map around, "It's a map of Scotland."

"These brothers," Anderson muttered under his breath, "okay, I'll do a full lab work up, analysis, it'll probably take me a few days to-"

"No," John put his hand down, "no, we don't have that kind of time."

"I'm sorry, John," Sally sighed, "this is what we're going to have to work with. If we can catch this guy before he kidnaps others-"

"He's not planning to kidnap more people, he's planning to kill! Sacrifice! This man is a black magic psycho who is going to do his satanic rituals _today,_ we cannot allow that to happen."

"Any ideas?" Greg raised his brows.

"Sherlock didn't do this whole lab work up, he gave it one glance for 15 seconds and figured it out."

"Watson, despite your incessant attempts to convince us otherwise, _we are not Sherlock Holmes._ " Anderson's eyes narrowed.

"You don't think I know that," he snapped back, "but we have to try our best here, he deserves that much from us."

"John is right," Lestrade nodded, "Anderson, did Holmes run any unauthorized tests in the lab at all?"

"Not that I know of," he shook his head, "and if he did, I'll kill him."

"Okay, so there isn't anything in the map, it's a message."

"A message from the map of Scotland?"

"Sorry I'm late," they all looked up as Holland Butler came running in, a bandage wrapped around his upper forearm, "what do we got?"

"Nice of you to show up," Lestrade's tone was tart, "where've you been?"

"A little accident on my way over," he lifted his arm in the bandage, "rear-ended, glass shattered and cut my hand."

"You all right?" John called, happy to get some more help from Butler.

"Yeah, nothing that won't heal. It's not important, we need to find Sherlock and the Parliament members before anything drastic goes down at the meeting today."

"AKA, they're deaths," Anderson said blatantly, he got a death glare from Watson.

"Is this a map of Scotland?" Holland looked at it questioningly, "What's it for?"

"Recognize your home anywhere?" Sally quipped, smiling lightly.

Butler laughed, "We've been so neck deep in this case, I probably wouldn't recognize it."

"Sherlock left us another clue," Watson interrupted their little chat and pulled out another series of photographs, "at his abduction spot at Tate Gallery, he scooped a handful of dirt from the planter I assume and in it he drew this," John pointed to a star tracing in the dirt scattered on the floor, "a pentagram outline."

"Why would he do that? We know about the pentagrams," the DI narrowed his eyes.

"It's another clue," Holland was rubbing his chin with his hands, "Holmes was telling us something beside the facts we already know."

"He already showed us the pentagram on the London map where the abductions took place," Sally reminded the team, "he may be referring to that again."

Lestrade flipped open his cell, "Right, I'm going to need officers at all victim locations."

"Maybe it's not that," John shook his head, "it had to be something blatant, something we would see right off the bat."

"A marking," Butler narrowed his gaze, his eyes looked distant.

"Precisely, and this map of Scotland, it's coming from Mycroft so it's going to be in a riddle, but something doable at the same time. Sherlock was able to understand it clearly enough."

"Okay, so what significance do our victims, Scotland, and a star have in common?" Donovan had doubt in her voice even as she said it.

"This is impossible!" Butler threw his hands in the air, "we're running out of time!"

"So what do you suggest we do?" Anderson asked.

"Our forces should be targeted to protect the Palace of Westminster, we cannot delay."

"But there are multiple variables in the investigation now, Butler, we cannot ignore our evidence," Lestrade spoke up.

"Our evidence?! You mean a map of Scotland and a star traced in dirt?! What evidence is that?!"

"It's evidence left by our victim," Donovan stepped forward, "yes, Sherlock has become a victim now and he was trying to leave us these clues so you can be damn sure we aren't going to ignore them," she turned to Lestrade, "if you say Holmes gave it one glance and immediately knew then we have to think broader. Not a specific place in Scotland, but the country as a whole."

"Anderson, call up Research and have them bring me everything they can on the latest news in Scotland, all of it."

The analyst reached for the phone and made a call.

"You," Greg pointed to Holland who was standing and looking down at the map, "it's your hometown, tell us what you got."

Something clicked within John.

 _It's your hometown._

 _Not a specific place in Scotland, but the country as a whole._

 _What significance do our victims, Scotland, and a star have in common?_

 _It's coming from Mycroft, so it's going to be a riddle._

A cold realization poured through John, dread filling his limbs and his mind like a freezing tidal wave. He had stumbled away from the table a little bit, thinking about what Lestrade had said, the world appearing to him in a whole new light. Holland Butler, the Scottish PI, was the killer?

No, it couldn't be true. It couldn't.

"John?" He heard a questioning reply from Greg.

"Yeah?" He cleared his throat, "Yes, yes, I'm here."

"Are you all right, Watson?" the concerned Butler came closer to him.

Watson took an instinctive step back. Those hands may have abducted Sherlock, may have placed that chloroform gag over his mouth and dragged and tied him to a chair doing God knows what with him.

"Just had a thought," he moved back to the table, standing by Lestrade pointedly, "continue."

"Butler was just telling me that there's some political turmoil in Scotland…" his voice faded away from John's ears. His vision was focused in on the bandage around Butler's wrist.

Sherlock left the pentagram tracing in the dirt. It was something that had to stand out to him in his last few moments of consciousness. Something his eyes must've caught during his kidnapping. If Holland Butler really was the abductor, then it would make sense.

When John was attacked by the kidnapper, the accent the man bore was English. But from what he could recall when Butler came into their flat with that fake murder case to test Sherlock, he adopted an English accent. It was doable for him, easy too, he was good at it. And the kidnapper was wearing black leather gloves and now conveniently there was a bandage around Butler's hands. If he was the kidnapper, that meant there was something to do with his hands.

"Butler," John interrupted, "what exactly happened to your wrist? I'm a doctor, I can give it a quick look if that's all right?"

John moved across the table, observing everything.

The Scottish PI had a look of question cross his face then a smile.

"That's so very kind of you, Mr. Watson," Holland answered, "but I'm fine, it's just a little scratch."

"Then that bandage is too big," John persisted casually, "I can give you a smaller one, I have it with me in my bag."

"Oh no," he was taken aback a little by my determination, "small but deep, I was able to handle it, John, thank you."

"Really, Butler," Lestrade shrugged, "save some money on medical bills, you got a doctor right here."

"Uh, fine," he nodded, "okay, John, here."

He walked over to John, holding out his right arm. Watson eagerly undid the bandage and pulled off the gauze completely."

"You see?"

John turned his wrist over and over, but no star tattoo. This didn't make sense, Butler was supposed to be the kidnapper! The pieces fit because he had knowledge that the police were giving him about their next raids and their suspicions on the kidnapper. That's why the bastard was so untouchable, he was keeping tabs on them all-Sherlock in particular.

"Is it bad, Dr. Watson?" he looked into Holland's eyes who was speaking to him.

He was right, there was a slim slice on his wrist that went deep. The blood was clotting already and John rewrapped the bandage.

"Um, all clear," he said quietly, putting it back on, "it's clean, no infection."

"Thank you, sir," Butler buttoned his sleeve once again.

"Where were we…" Lestrade continued as John's hopes dropped.

The clock ticked on. Parliament members gathered into the Palace of Westminster, ready to convene and begin their urgent meeting after their fellow abducted representatives went missing. The investigative team at Scotland Yard had no hope of deciphering the clues that Sherlock left for them. Their only hope was to wait for the kidnapper to do something at the meeting to track him down and find the victims. It was a nearly hopeless plan as their entire schedules and jobs revolved around the will of the kidnapper. Who knew what his plans were, when the sacrifices would commence, and when he had make a move on the Palace? It was a game of time, one they were on the losing side of.

"Okay," Lestrade heard the whisper of John as they stood at the closed doors along with a barricade of officers for protection, "it's now or never."

Lestrade didn't like the sound of that. He didn't want to believe that Sherlock's life was in danger, that he could be killed. The man was always untouchable.

"Are we ready to begin?" the booming voice of the head member echoed through the Parliament chambers. Men found their seats and looked warily at the officers lining the room like a cell membrane. There was babbling and yelling from the members like usual but not with as much enthusiasm with their members gone. It didn't fit, everyone was on edge, the officers surrounding the building were on high alert.

Watson kept his eyes glued to Butler; he was still precarious even after his allegations were proved otherwise. He looked under the bandage and the wound was there, like glass from his windshield cut right through it.

Except John Watson was a doctor and he'd seen his fair share of trauma. A wound like that would still be clotting, it was deep and small, but no blood stained the gauze resting upon it.

It had to be a staged injury with a fake wound.

Good make up and a little props would do the trick and the Scotchman was prepared, he even had a fake gash on his arm for the looks. That meant he was still a suspect for the kidnapping. John couldn't believe he didn't catch it before, he was probably so focused on Sherlock it didn't jump out at him. The blood was fake, the wound an obvious prosthetic.

"Lestrade," John nudged him, "come with me."

"John?" The DI narrowed his gaze, "Now?"

"I have an idea about the kidnapper," he ushered Greg over to the corner away from obvious ears, "you're going to think it's absurd, but I have reason to believe Holland Butler is the kidnapper."

"H-Holland Butler?!" Lestrade scoffed, "Watson, of all people?!"

"Listen to me!" he said in a harsh whisper as heads began to turn, "Were there any qualifications that Butler showed you upon arrival?"  
"Well, he showed me his license and told me that DCI Carter called him in from-"

"But there was no direct message from DCI Carter?"

"Well…no."

"Exactly! He's been playing us all along, that gauze on his arm is fake. The star outline in the dirt was a clue from Sherlock that our kidnapper has a mark on him in the shape of a pentagram."

"But how do you know it's on his wrist?"

"Because the man always wears gloves! It's so he isn't distinct or anything to trace him by! Now that accident story he told us was fake. The wound I "examined" was a prosthetic and there's no blood on the bandage."

"O-Okay, but these are small details, I need hard evidence-"

"There isn't any, but notice how he was in a rush on his way in? And how Sherlock was coincidentally kidnapped at Tate Gallery when that information never left the office? Butler was there, he has been one-up on us this whole time!"

"Let's say you're right, Watson, what can we do?!" DI Lestrade paced, "I can't make an arrest right here, right now without solid hard evidence because say he isn't the kidnapper, I'll get fired for directing our resources to a fluke suspect."

"We can't just wait him out!"

"Yes, we can. If you are correct, John, Butler is right in our sights, now let's head back before anything happens," Greg brushed past John's shoulder and back in line.

John, on the other hand, walked outside to find someone.

"Three, two, one!"

Sherlock braced himself and fell backwards hard. His wooden, splintering chair collapsed against the cement floor as his plan worked. Holmes pushed himself backwards with his legs and his weight crushed his seat. On the downside, his skull cracked against the concrete, blood pooled around his fallen body, and a low groan escaped his lips.

"You're doing great!" came the encouraging reply of his fellow abductees, "the crowbar is right next to you, on the left!"

Holmes opened his blue eyes with effort and looked to the left with immense strain. Even his eye muscles protested in pain. He heaved himself, moving his arms around in their now loose ropes and pulled them apart, resting them upon his chest. They came away wet and sticky with his blood.

"Come on, Mr. Holmes!"

"Alright, alright," he growled and dragged his beaten, exhausted body closer to his weapon of escape. His wrists were still bound along with his ankles, but he was worming his way across the dingy floor.

"Got it!" he wheezed as the dirty metal lay wrapped in his cold fingers, "where's the glass!?"

"Farther down, keep moving!"

Sherlock gave up for a moment, his body resting against the floor in exhaustion as he felt fresh wet blood start to build up beneath his thick, sodden coat. He needed to keep going, to stop Butler. With a strained heave, Holmes pulled himself forward, his long, blood-stained fingers gripping the glass shards he found so hard, they cut his skin.

"What do you plan to do with that, sir?" a meek voice called from behind him.

Sherlock pushed himself up, his mind solely focused on getting himself out of the bonds that tied his ankles and wrists together. Pieces of the wood chair clung to his sleeves and legs as his head ached roughly from the deliberate fall he took. The ropes wavered and swam in front of his vision, and he knew that he would black out soon enough. The job needed to be done quick, he needed to free these people before something worse happened.

The glass shard in his hand sliced through the old ropes with ease and he doubled over in pain as he was forced to lean forward to free his ankles.

"He's done it!" one of the men cried, "He's free!"

"Please, me next, sir! I have a wife, a family!"

"No, no, me! I've been here longest, almost 2 weeks now!"

"Mr. Holmes, please-"

"Enough!" he shouted as he staggered to his legs, falling and catching himself against the wall, "it doesn't matter who gets out first, as long as the job is done," Holmes hissed under his breath in pain and frustration. He picked up his crowbar and made his way around to each chair, busting the old teetering legs and rusty screws as he did so to free his fellow captives.

They stretched their limbs, some had trouble standing as their swollen, tied down extremities hadn't moved for days now. Blood flowed back into them regularly, reviving the parched tissues. The woman who had protested his abuse came up to him, helping to put his shoulders straight as the folded position of his abdomen caused blood to flow more regularly into his aching limbs.

"All right, come on," she said, "off to the hospital."

"No," Sherlock shook his head resolutely and took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders back, "John."

"John?" one of the freed men spoke up, "John Watson? I love his blog!"

"Is this really the time?!" she retorted as I walked forward, a new determination seeping into my bones to see John once more and see if he was okay.

"All of you," Holmes turned to face them, "If I could guess correctly-which I do for a living-we are beneath the Palace of Westminster at sewer level. It's like a boiler room which naval captains from the Thames used in the past," he wielded the crowbar in his pale palm and spoke fiercely, "you will leave here down the west tunnel once we escape, there should be a service ladder that'll lead you right to a drain pipe on street level. Be careful, police should have a perimeter set around the building."

"What about you?" his neighbor who was choked looked at me.

"I still have a job to do," Sherlock started towards the exit, "Butler is still on the loose."

"You're injured," another member protested, "you can't go on."

"You worry about your duties and I will about mine," Sherlock harshly turned around and rebuked, "I don't sit at a desk all day with tea served to my mouth. _This_ is what my career entails."

"Wait! Before you go," the woman who had protested to his beating came forward, "my name is Claire if you ever need anything, just phone."

"Brighton," the member who was choked dipped his head, his voice raspy.

"Lilly."

"Daniel."

"Mitch."

"Very good," he hated delays, "off you go."

They all filed past him like little schoolchildren, some giving him solemn glances behind their shoulders as they shuffled past.

 **Chapter 13 will be released soon!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13 will be a little shorter, but here we are! Please leave me some love in the review section and thank you to my loyal and new followers/subscribers! Much appreciated!**

John couldn't bear it, and his options were slim. There was one person he could resort to.

"Mycroft," he approached the elder Holmes and sat behind him in the crowd. Watson leaned forward and whispered it in his ears, careful to try and not disturb the important meeting commencing around him.

"Oh, dear God, save me now," Mycroft sighed and crossed his legs, "what is it now, Watson?"

"Other than your soon to be dead brother?" he growled sinisterly.

He thought he saw a little flinch, but it was so minuscule John could've been imagining it.

"If your depravity cannot bear to wait till after this meeting," Mycroft whispered harshly back, "then I shall go," he began to make motion to get up but John interfered.

"No, wait," he demanded, "just stay for a moment."

"I'm listening," Mycroft settled himself again.

"I understood what you said," he admitted, "the envelope, but I cannot seem to understand what relevance it has."

"Oh, please, John," Holmes looked at him with a scrutinizing gaze, "of course you do."

He sighed for a moment. The map of Scotland represented Holland Butler and his ancestry, "But it's unreasonable, there's no way, it cannot have been-"

"Stop stuttering," he hissed, "you're wasting time blabbering when I've given you all your information."

"All the-no you haven't! Your'e failing to comply!" few heads turned in their direction and Mycroft smiled apologetically at them, frowning when he met John's face again.

"Did you look at the map?"

"Why, of course-"

"Did you really?" Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Yes, I did," he said curtly.

"Then you have the intelligence of an infant. The map showed what?"

"Um," John tried to jog his memory. What was the map of again? That would be important to remember…

He gasped, "Parliament."

"Exactly," Mycroft nodded like he was speaking to a child, "it's the map of the Scottish Parliament building, John, now what do those two clues give you?"

"Mycroft," John laughed with amazement, "you're a genius!"

"Oh, I know," he shook his head, a triumphant smirk on his face as he turned back around.

John was grabbing his things and preparing to launch out of his seat when an arm fell on his elbow, "Watson,"

It was Mycroft, a serious look etched into his features.

"Yes?"

"Find him," he spoke in a low voice, "bring down heaven and earth, but by God, find him."

He nodded once, a promise he would not break and ran out the building.

Lestrade wouldn't follow him with the troops because of the lack of substantial evidence, but with all his heart Watson knew Sherlock was here on the premises. It had to be somewhere secret, lucrative, where no one would look. It wasn't going to be in the Palace itself with hundreds of guards patrolling every second, but near enough. He exited the building, glad to be out of the stuffy and tense environment. Yard officers lined the building, stern looks on their faces like stone.

A putrid smell began to waft up below him, he scrunched his nose and found himself standing on a sewage drain pipe. _Brilliant!_

It had to be, it had to be below! His entire body was driven to the notion and he hurriedly pulled the metal lid from the ground. An awful odor wrapped around him, making him dizzy, and he practically fell down the ladder leading him to the murky brown waters below. His gag reflex activated and he had to compose himself for a moment, trying to convince himself to continue. He had a promise to Mycroft and himself to keep.

He sloshed through the muck, holding his handy flashlight against the dark tunnel walls to light his way. The eerie and cold atmosphere made him shiver, he didn't know what to expect down there.

"Sherlock?" he called softly at first, careful not to alert any other uninvited guests of his presence. His voice echoed through the shadows, no reply returning to him.

"Sherlock!" he called a little louder. Still no reply.

John continued walking.

He braced himself, his breath in his throat, as he marched on, the flashlight tight in his hand and his palm against the hilt of his gun in his belt. The poor bastard was locked up here for two days, Watson could hardly withstand twenty minutes!

"Sherlock!" he called once more. There was something different about the way his voice echoed this time. It was like up ahead, his voice sectioned off and reverberated across a large room, or rooms.

Rooms?  
Sherlock could be in one of those.

The swampy brown water that he waded in slowly receded and he was standing on dusky, moist ground. There were crusty ladders, a few rusted hatches, an old, outdated control panel, and a large metal vault that sealed off a room. He didn't know what could be inside or where he was, but a dark feeling settled itself deep within his stomach.

John approached cautiously, his army senses alert for any sort of attack. The drops that dripped from the ceiling felt like he was placed directly into a suspense thriller. He hated suspense thrillers.

"Anybody there?" he asked precariously, his gun's barrel aimed towards that foreboding metal vault, corroded by rust and grotesque water. Watson took a deep breath, putting the thought in his mind of Holmes' limited time, and pushed open the door.

It was dusty inside, and dim. The only light that filtered through the godforsaken place was a from the metal bars above. Inside was a mess; trash littered the floor, odd objects like wooden legs, glass shards, and torn rope scattered across the little room. He tried to clear the stuffy air by waving the dust mites out of his face. His eyes could hardly adjust and he tripped over abstract items all over the place. He shone his flashlight on a particularly strange scene before him. Carcasses of half broken chairs littered the floors in the corners of the room.

"In the corners…" he echoed aloud.

This was the room. The sacrificial room as Holmes pointed out, the victims were placed in the corners of the room in the shape of a pentagram star.

The victims were here, these chairs were there restraints, and these ropes bound them for days. But they weren't here now; they must've escaped. Oh, that genius Sherlock Holmes! He rejoiced, happy that his companion was safe again. Watson had a smile on his face, when something sinister caught his eye. He recognized it anywhere, something his eyes had grown used to over the weathered years as an army doctor. Blood.

Watson felt a shiver crawl through him and he walked closer to the substance. There was quite a lot of it hidden in the shadows. There were pools of it, most dry, some a little sticky. There was major blood loss here, a large or deep injury sustained during the abduction. And John had a feeling of who it might be.

"Damn it," he cursed and ran out of the dingy room. If Sherlock was running around with that kind of injury, he'd be dead by the end of the day. He tried to phone Lestrade, no cell signal appearing this deep underground.

 _Faster, John, faster!_ He willed himself with an unbelievable burst of energy as Watson leaped through the dark, disgusting tunnels like a gazelle.

"Sherlock!" he yelled, not caring who heard him at this point, "Holmes!"

The consulting detective sank to the floor, knee-deep in brown muck that mingled with his red blood. His eyelids were closing as he forcefully tried to keep them open, a small battle he was losing. The blood loss combined with a brutal beating, a head injury, and exhaustion was enough to knock a guy out hours ago. He didn't know where he was going, the crowbar fell from his numb, shaking fingertips a few turns back and now he was venturing deeper into the London sewages looking for an escape to warn his friends.

"Sherlock!"

It was distant, barely audible, but enough for him to bust his eyelids open and lift his sagging head from against the wall.

"John?" his hoarse voice was revived a little.

"Sherlock!" there it was again, getting farther away.

"No," he clenched his teeth and reached forward to pull himself along the walls, "John!" he tried calling louder. The strain made more of his blood dribble down the side of his hairline, but he barely felt the pain flaring through his body and more determination.

Holmes clawed with his nails and gripped the rusty, grimy sewer wall with all his role and heaved himself out of the dripping gunk clinging to his coat and clothes. He stumbled through the mud with a heavy gait and straightened his spine to reach his friend-his doctor.

"Watson!" he shouted.

John turned his neck as a relieving sound reached his ears with relief, "Bloody hell," he laughed as tensions released from his shoulders and throat and he ran in the opposite direction, "Holmes!"

"Watson," he heard a slightly gasping voice in return. Through the dim light, a skeletal figure stood heavily leaning against the dirty sewer walls, his clothes wet with gross sewage, and his white skin tainted with blood, "are you there?"

"Sherlock," he ran forward and met his best friend with a fierce determination, instantly trying to relieve him of some of his weight by supporting him with his shoulder and walking forward with him.

"It's about time," the detective huffed in the eerie light, "I betted on two more days before you could gather your thoughts to find me."  
At least the attitude was alive.

"Sherlock," John finally found a relatively dry spot and pushed his friend against the wall who sagged to the floor, "What happened to you? Where are you hurt?"

"Watson, there are more important matters than-"

"Holmes," John said fiercely, "your injuries, now."

He exhaled deeply before responding, "I have a stab wound to the abdomen, multiple bruising all over, and an injury to my temple."

"Jesus Christ, what happened? What did he do?" John hastily helped remove his friend's soggy coat.

"Butler tried-"

"So it was Butler," Watson growled, "I knew it was that lying bastard."

"You figured it out?"

"Yes and no, with a little help from your brother."

"I should've known you weren't that reliable," Sherlock huffed and John cracked a smile, "the map?"

"Yeah," Watson faltered, "wait, you knew?"

"Of course I knew," Sherlock was interrupted by a horrible coughing fit before continuing again in a raspy voice, "it was obvious."

John was examining the stab wound on his friend's abdomen, it wasn't too deep but it had been unattended for a day now. It could've got an infection in this filthy dump and blood loss was another major factor.

"I was sure, but the only way to figure out where he was keeping his victims was to become one."

"So you deliberately put yourself in this position?" John got a little angry, "and you didn't tell me?"

"Telling you would've risked my scheme, no one knew," he concluded.

"Okay, so how do you feel now that you've gotten your way?" John continued his examination.

"I need to finish, the case is incomplete. Butler is still out there and I have all the evidence to incriminate him," he gestured to himself, "and a few witnesses."

"The members of Parliament?" Watson looked around hastily, "Are they all right?"

"They found refuge," Holmes winced as he pulled himself up against the wall, his fingertips bloody from the effort.

"Where do you think you're going?" John was beside himself with worry, "You are going in an ambulance this instant!"

"No, I need to continue, I'm nearly done," Sherlock took a shaky step forward, falling then catching himself against the wall again.

"Absolutely not, there is no way-"

"Listen to me, John!" Sherlock turned on his friend, "I need to complete this, and whether I live or die is up to me, not you! You can come with me if you want or stay here, I don't care but I will not rest until I see Holland Butler behind those metal bars and me on the other side, understood?"

"And there's no changing your mind on this?" John sighed, knowing there was no arguing here.

"Absolutely," this was the strongest Sherlock sounded at the moment.

"Okay, then," Watson gave a half-hearted smile, "the game is on."

 **Chapter 14 will be released soon!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Thank you all for waiting so patiently, I'm trying to crank out these chapters as fast as possible! Please leave me a review, and let me know what you think! Enjoy!**

Butler felt skittish, like a wild horse did when a foreigner came near. He had the urge to flee, but something was pulling him to stay. Watson had left over 20 minutes ago after talking to DI Lestrade and then Holmes' brother Mycroft. He didn't like that chap, and by the looks of John's face, he wasn't too fond of him either.

His eyes constantly scanned the room, he was waiting for someone to come up to him and slap the cuffs on his wrist, dragging him off. He was completely vulnerable at the moment. He had to wait till the time was right before he finally gave his last hurrah. He shuffled his foot a little, the ankle sweaty from the leather strap tightened around the muscle. And that leather strap attached to a small time bomb ready to count down, tucked neatly under his pants leg.

If things went wrong, he'd be making a statement. The explosion would be broadcasted all over Great Britain-all over the world-as one man took the whole of English Parliament down in flames. Goosebumps rose up and down his arms at the notion. What a splendid way to die if he had to, his peace had been made long ago when he first took up his black magic crafts.

"Come on," John urged Sherlock as they sloshed through the gunk at their feet and his friend leaned heavily on his shoulder, "we're almost there."

"John, is Butler there?" Sherlock hustled along, a gleam in his eyes.

"Yes, and ripe for the taking," Watson nodded, using his army strength to assist him with the tall detective on him, "the left of the courtroom."

"Near the exit, clever," Sherlock grunted, "we make a right here and up the ladder."

"Holmes," Watson sighed, "I know you'll defer my persistent efforts if I try to change your mind on this matter, but what exactly are you planning when we do reach the surface covered in sewage and smelling like hazardous waste for a mile."

"We go for the kill, Watson, like we always do. The mind is the most powerful weapon, and that's all we have at this point."

"Including an entire army of officers," John muttered, "so are we going to make a scene?"

"Don't we always?" he grunted with a laugh.

"Wait," John slowed down a little, "there's a question I've been meaning to ask you, Holmes."

"Now?" his friend straightened his spine a little to ease his weight off.

"Now or never, right? We never know what'll happen up there," John turned his eyes skyward and gulped, "It's just that you left the clue in the dirt, the pentagram tracing."

"Yes," the detective panted, his hand pressed against his abdomen. John pursed his lips and set him against the wall, opening his long coat to check the wound once again, "right before I was taken, on his wrist I saw a tattoo of that outline."

"Butler?"

"Well, of course it was Butler, John," the consulting detective hissed as Watson probed the stab wound.

"But when he came to the Yard, he had gauze on his wrist claiming he sustained an injury while driving."

"That's a lie," his gaze darkened, "it had to be a prosthetic, Holland must've known I had left the clue, he was covering it up."

"But the map as well," John sighed, "Mycroft's envelope, you opened it and right away you knew, didn't you? You knew that it was Butler who had abducted the Parliament members because of the map and you didn't bother to tell anybody?"

Sherlock flinched from pain, the eerie drops of the sewer echoing through the tunnels, "Must we do this now?"

"You don't understand, Holmes," Watson became more curt, "you could've been killed, and you didn't trust me enough to tell me that you were blindly going out on a whim for an investigation."

Holmes let loose a shaky breath, some anger dancing in his eyes as he struggled to lift himself up, to be eye to eye with John, "It's not that I didn't trust you, John, it's that you couldn't be involved."

"Involved?! Since when have your cases been more important than our friendship!?"  
"It's not that, Watson," he shouted, "it's that I couldn't let you get hurt again."

The sewer tunnels echoed with the shouts of the detective team, but it immediately died out.

"Are you serious, Holmes?" John took a step closer.

"You got hurt once because of me, John, not again," his tone was resolute.

"Sherlock, listen to me," John was breathing heavy, "you don't get to choose the decisions that are mine to make, alright? I chose to be apart of this organization and I knew _damn_ well what it entailed."

"You almost died, Watson," Sherlock's voice got deeper, "it was my mistake, I didn't listen to you and made us easy targets. It made me realize we aren't untouchable-un _kill_ able. I knew long ago that I might not ever make it alive through one of my cases, but you have opportunities, John, are you going to throw that away for some investigation? A wife, children, family, old age? Are those things that you are willing to sacrifice?"

"You forget that I've dealt with worse situations, Holmes," John's temper flared, "I almost lost my life in Afghanistan, I don't need you to tell me what I can and can't do!"

Sherlock still had blame and determination mingled in his gaze, but he relented.

"Okay, John, but when we go up there there's a possible chance we are going to die."

"Speak for yourself, you'll be lucky to make it to the stairwell," there was a note of sadness in his voice,"off we go."

"Up ahead," Sherlock's face was paper white and his purple bruised eyelids held tired eyes. Blood streaks stained the side of his face as his temple wound started to clot, but there was still residual dribbles, "The ladder to the hatch."

John tested the ladder first, making sure it was stable as he laid Holmes on the floor to recollect his fading energy from their trek through the sewage tunnels. Watson unlocked the hatch above, poking his head through to see that it was relatively clear. A few pedestrians strayed here and there but it attracted little attention which was good.

Sherlock came up, his legs and arms shaking as his breaths ripped through his lungs like a blade. The rungs of the ladder were crusty and old with millions of bacteria clinging to it's rusted skeleton like a hive. John held Holmes' back as he dragged himself out of the hatch, blood, sewage water, and sweat dripping off of him as he hauled himself over the edge and into the chilly winter air.

Holmes groaned as he rolled across the pavement, fresh air flowing into his lungs. His blood and the dirty water mingled onto the frosty pavement as nighttime was approaching.

"Sherlock," John called from down below, "Holmes! Are you all right?"  
"I'm fine," he breathed, his exhales frosty mist in front of him, "Come on up, there's no time to waste!"

He heard the heavy steps of John as he brought himself up over the side, wincing himself. Watson could feel his stitches were straining to rip once more, another injury like that and he'd be grounded for good.

They surfaced from the dark dredges of the Palace of Westminster; the pedestrians roaming the streets looked at them like they belonged in bedlam. The duo needed to leave before too much attention was called to them, before Butler started anything new.

"We're to the left of the entrance," John panted, turning round and round with Sherlock on his arm, "can you make it?"

"Don't worry about me," Sherlock's voice was harsh, but despite his injuries the detective let go of Watson's supportive shoulder and straightened up his spine. He buttoned his coat up with nimble, pale fingers to hide the growing injuries that marked his form. His eyes held a renewed fire and his head was held high. Miraculously, he looked to John once and nodded his head towards the entrance, breaking out into a run. John's medical senses tingled with urgency and the idiocy of his actions, but Holmes was a train without a track. There was no stopping him.

"Coming through, coming through!" Sherlock plowed through the crowd of civilians standing in front of the Parliament entrance barricaded by metal gates and a horde of defying policeman.

"Sherlock!" John panted and winced, holding his throbbing side, "Slow down!"

Sherlock was in no condition to run, what was he thinking? There was no way he'd make it without-

"Holmes!"

The detective tore through the crowd of people, pushing past shoulders and earning horrible and dirty glances from surrounding civilians. He stumbled and fell, his hand barely clasping against the floor to hold himself up. The joints in his elbow were overworking carrying majority of his bodyweight, the limb visibly quivering. He looked around as confused faces glared down at him, and he pushed himself up once again, a harsh exhale escaping his chest.

"Holmes, stop!"

He refused to listen to Watson, refused to waste more precious moments letting Butler indulge in his devious plans. His lanky, bloody body beat past the police line, flashing a badge into the eyes of one of them as guns started to point at his sprinting form.

They opened the doors for him once they saw the badge (it was stolen from Lestrade) and John pushed past as well. The great wooden doors of the chamber banged shut after them with a loud thunderous noise.

"John," Sherlock panted, holding his abdomen that was buttoned up tightly with the coat. Watson had wrapped it like that, the tight fit of the wool would keep pressure on the wound because they had no bandages at the moment, "John."

"Yes?" his partner looked at him, trying to catch his own breath, "What is it?"

"I-I think I need to sit down," as he said it, his eyes went wide, and his face slack. Sherlock's back began to slide against the wall, a smearing bloodstain following his downward path. The army doctor surged forward, gripping his best friend's shoulders as he tumbled down.

"Sherlock!" the detective had a perplexed look on his face like he was surprised that he was actually in this crucial condition, "you bloody idiot, Holmes," John's voice cracked with worry, "don't you do this to me."

"Help me up, John," Sherlock fixed him with a hard stare after letting out a few haggard breaths.

"Stay down, Sherlock, just for a moment. Collect yourself."

"There's no time to waste!" his objection spurred new determination in him as Sherlock heaved himself up from the floor. Blood was smeared on his hands and visibly seeping through his coat. John wrapped his arm around his friend's shoulder and helped him along. The doors leading into the next chamber were firmly shut, only a little noise seeping through the cracks.

"Ready?" Sherlock breathed heavily.

"For what?" Watson huffed, "running in, a couple of detectives on a manhunt for missing Parliament members, beaten bloody, searching for a fellow detective to arrest and accuse of kidnapping in the Palace of Westminster during one of the most important gatherings in all of Great Britain?"

Both of them said nothing for a heartbeat.

"Yes, yes, I am."

"Off we go."

Sherlock and John plowed through the doors and into Parliament's chambers.

Lestrade had never seen a sight like it. For starters, he had been Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard for a few years now and had many more behind his belt, but this took the cake. Already, being inside Parliament was a whole new territory for him. This was the governing body of his country and they were under a direct threat. But low and behold, a few seconds later the great wooden doors burst open.

Inside came an odd looking detective duo; Greg's jaw dropped. It was a surreal scene, one he would hopefully never EVER be associated with again…

There were shouts of surprise and shock as Sherlock Holmes, the ultimate detective who had been missing for a day now, came barging into the room, a long arm draped across John Watson's shoulder. Holmes' dark black coat was absolutely _soaked_ in blood, the liquid now dripping from the thick wool fabric. Greg even moved forward a little instinctively as his corpse-like countenance was beyond alarming, the purple rings around his eyes stacked upon each other. There was blood smeared all over his hands and a steady stream flowing down the side of his face from a probable temple wound. His entire body language screamed pain and discomfort, but his icy blue eyes were absolutely focused.

And they were zeroed in on Holland Butler.

"What the-" Sergeant Donovan at his side jumped in surprise as many cries of alarm rang through the chamber, representatives standing up in the middle of their meeting to deal with the commotion that just fell upon them.

"What in the bloody devil is this?!" the booming voice of the representative at the stand blared across the whole room, anger in his tone.

John looked worse for wear as well. Sherlock's long and heavy form was no match for his already recovering body, a small bloodstain on his loose shirt where his stitches probably ripped.

"Everyone, everyone, calm down!" Sherlock unwrapped his arm around his detective partner and held his red-stained hands in the air in a gesture of quiet, "Settle!"

The clamor of the hall was loud and confused, but they eagerly looked to Sherlock, a gruesome sight, as he propelled forward in his announcement.

"Everyone, quiet!" Holmes yelled once more as they noise died down and eventually ceased, Lestrade's mouth still open in awe, "Listen here!"

"Who are you?" the gargled voice of the old member upon the podium demanded as he stared down at Sherlock infernally.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," there were gasps coming from the crowd as they instantly recognized the name of the famous missing detective, "and I am here to officially authorize an arrest."

"An arrest?" the strained voice blurted across the room as Sherlock hopped up on a chair to gain leverage. Spit was flying from the man's old lips, his face red with strain, "In Parliament?! During a formal gathering?! In the Palace of Westminster?!"

"Why, could you think of any better opportunity?" Holmes looked around the room, scanning everyone in turn with cold blue eyes, "Now, listen here, the doors of this building are locked, completely barricaded. Judging by the clamor of people outside, there is hardly any chance the officers will hear us."

"Hear what?"

"Your pathetic cries for help," Holmes hissed low.

"What do you mean, sir?!" there were shouts and worried whispers gliding through the air, "Get out, someone take him out this instance!"

"You'll let me stay if you value your life!" he challenged, "ah-" he keeled over for a moment, holding his stinging abdomen with a hand.

"What's wrong?" the podium yelled at him in annoyance.

"Inside of your ranks there is a criminal standing before us," Sherlock's voice was low and foreboding, "he has been disguised as one of us for quite some time now, blending in with our society perfectly."

"Who?" came a voice from the throng of people below.

"That's for me to know, and for you to find out," in a moment, he was back up again. Holmes roamed across the room, his eyes scanning faces and features inquisitively as he continued with his little game.

"You idiot!" the podium screeched once more, the old man looked like he was seriously in danger of blowing a blood vessel with all of those veins bulging out of his tomato red face, "You leave us here to die with the information of a criminal amidst our group! Unbelievable!"

"Listen, old man," Sherlock retorted, "I don't know what he is up to, I need time to analyze and time to think, understand?" the way Holmes said it made it sound like it wasn't a question, "Time is of the essence, so do play quickly!"

"Play?" Greg Lestrade shouted over the hum of the people, "Play what?"

"You remember John's wedding, Lestrade?" Sherlock walked down the aisles of seated people, all eyes on him, "You remember how it went?"

From the corner of his eye, he could see Holland Butler grow a little antsy, his brows furrowing as he shuffled from foot to foot.

 _Strange…his left foot falls a little lighter-a little more cautiously. Is that a bulk in his pant leg? That could only mean one thing…._

"John," Sherlock started back towards his friend and whispered low, "there's a bomb."

Watson's eyes widened for a moment before he settled again. He was used to the high stress situations of the detective life, "What do we do?"

"I have to stall, I'll focus on the crowd. We can't approach him too quickly or he'll know and set it off, you need to be discreet and disarm him at the same time, can you do that?"

"I'll try, but can't he set it off at any moment?"

"I've calculated a 68% chance he will not."  
"Okay, but what about the remaining percentage?"

"It's unlikely he will, he won't want to incriminate himself just yet while the crowd is still guessing. There's still a window in which he can get caught and his plans foiled. I need to play the situation out in a way where Butler won't notice that we're on to him."

"But he knows that you know he's the kidnapper, he might assume you'll identify him, Holmes."

"Not unless I want this entire room to be a pile of ashes and smoke. Now, Watson, I can't keep the charade up for long," Watson looked down and pursed his lips as Sherlock's voice strained and a trembling hand held his side, "you need to be quick, and make sure the reinforcements outside the building come in and assist as well. But you must be absolutely sure that _he will not ignite the bomb._ Then we're all done for."

"Okay, okay, so disarm quietly and get reinforcements from the outside perimeter without bringing any attention to myself."

"Don't tell Lestrade, don't tell Mycroft, or Andersen, or Donovan," he instructed once more, "this is between us, now, move!"

Watson sunk back into the throng, keeping a close eye on Butler as he moved himself to the back.

"A game," Sherlock brought it back once more, "called 'Guess the Kidnapper,' who'd like to play?"  
"This is absurd!" voices argued from the crowd.

"Get down from the stage!"

"He's a madman!"

"Look, he's bleeding!"

Sherlock growled as he tightened his coat even tighter around his shaking and bleeding body, "Quiet down! Listen, I am taking an unconventional approach. You can trust me, I know what I'm doing. This isn't my first time dealing in situations like these."

"How can we trust you? You won't tell us who this abductor is!"

"Because I was the one that freed your fellow Parliament members," Holmes stood tall, but he looked alarmingly pale to have a stern look of confidence on his face, "I was the one who found them when no one else could. Come on, this is Parliament, a room full of the smartest people in the country," he was lying right through his teeth, feeding them the words they longed to hear, "the power of our nation chosen by our people. Get on with it!"

"He-he found them? The victims?" Anderson's voice wavered in shock as he whispered into Lestrade's ear, "Impossible!"

"Get on with it, Holmes!" Sergeant Donovan yelled impatiently from her spot. If the kidnapper was in the room she was damn well sure she would make the arrest.

"Let's begin," he took a deep, shaky breath. His eyes closed just for a moment, he let the surrounding engulf him, take him into the Palace where all of his thoughts and creations originated. He opened them once more, the crisp environment around him in a whole new perspective through his minty blue eyes, "This man walks like you, talks like you, but isn't one of you."

"So our abductor is a man?" a voice came from below.

"Well, obviously, I've only been addressing the kidnapper as a male since the start, what makes you think he's suddenly found himself in a context of a woman?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and retorted, "What else?!"

"You say he's in this room," another voice spoke up to him, "does that mean he's a fellow member of Parliament?"

Silent murmurs spread throughout the hall as fellows turned to one another in distrust.

Sherlock heard a _beep._

 _Oh no…_

From the corner of his peripheral vision, the detective saw Holland Butler reach down to his boot. There was a glimpse of a metal object. Definitely a time bomb. A string from the dynamite gently grazed against the floor. Just perfect.

Holmes met eye to eye with the tall, dark man. His brown hair was sitting atop his head slightly layered with sweat. The dark brown eyes held no emotion other than mild bemusement, his tall bulky form was relaxed, but he was lifting his pant leg slightly-a challenge. It was meant to allow the detective a quick glance on the ticking clock.  
2 minutes. That's all he had.

In one moment of eye contact, a million words passed between Sherlock Holmes and Holland Butler. There was a mutual agreement, a code of honor both men would stick to. It was a sticky game, one with high risks and an uncertain outcome. The bad heavily outweighed the good for chances of survival. But what did it matter? Sherlock was already on his way to death, the deep cuts on his body that had been exposed and uncared for taking the credit. Plus, he was having fun. The riveting back and forth chase between Butler and Holmes was exciting, even in his last few moments the looming threat of death was not daunting.

In their silent exchange, conditions were set. 1) Butler could not be exposed or else he would pull the early trigger and the Palace of Westminster would be charred ruins in the heart of London. 2) Sherlock had 2 minutes to stall and/or stop Holland Butler from setting off his crude weapon of choice.

Those were the limitations. Very biased ones in favor of dear old Holland Butler.

"You get a call from Scotland Yard of five missing people," Sherlock began in a husky voice, "kidnapped."

"You let the professional detectives handle it," a callous voice called from the crowd.

"And they were," Sherlock silenced him with a glare, "quite unsuccessfully might I add. However, these weren't normal kidnappings that grab your eye in the paper, but the abduction of 5 members of Parliament. Now that's a secret."

"Why are you telling us this?" a grumbling voice echoed to him, "We already know about the abductions and how unprepared we were to deal with an adversary so cunning."

"Then what do you do?" Holmes turned, keeping an eye on Butler who was giving him a deep glare, his hand placed stealthily in his pocket in case he needed to take explosive measures.

"You hire the best of the best," Lestrade spoke out, clearly implying his recruitment of Sherlock Holmes to the case.

"Excellent," Sherlock nodded, and bowed his head for a moment as he exhaled in pain, "you can't find the criminal, so what do you do?"

"Wait for his next move?" one member from the crowd responded.

"Perfect," Holmes growled in sarcasm, "if you are keen to find another dead victim. What else?"

"Draw him out?"

"Precisely, you draw out the kidnapper. How?"

"Bait him? Place a desired target as bait to attract the abductor?"

"How? With a man as clever as this he'll know it's a trap?" Sherlock felt a faintness pass through him, his eyes almost closing, "He blends in with crowds, its simple for him to abduct even the highest members of the community. The sight of undercover officers is obvious to him, you need the help of a certain majority."

"The public," Anderson snarked, "and we all know where that lead, Sherlock, you got a man stabbed"

Gasps and murmurs followed through the crowd and Holmes looked for Watson in the crowd recalling the moment his poor friend was attacked.

"Yes, but did it succeed?"  
"I guess," Sergeant Donovan rolled her eyes, "the kidnapper was drawn out of hiding but our agency was stumped for days because of the reckless stunt you pulled!"

"T-that's besides the point," Lestrade watched _very_ closely as he thought he saw Sherlock's right knee buckle for a moment and his step cross. No, no, his eyes must be playing tricks on him, he was sure, "The next plan of action," he breathed heavily, his words harder to dislodge from his dry throat, "what is the man's motive?"

 **Chapter 15 is out now!**


	15. Chapter 15

**Here we are, two chapters in one day! Hope you like it! Off to the final two chapters! Enjoy and leave me a review!**

As Sherlock was keeping the crowd trapped in the Palace of Westminster captivated, John snuck through the throng of people like a snake. He stealthily slithered in and around the bodies in his way as he was slowly closing in on Butler. Holland's eyes were following Sherlock's every move, it was almost mesmerizing. The way his dark eyes flitted with every gesture of the hand and each heavy breath that ripped through his lungs.

Holmes looked horrible, barely able to stand right on his own two feet but he was _somehow_ keeping his posture straight as a stick and his mind working at a million miles a minute. The man was a machine only to be stopped if the worst ailment deterred him: death.

John had a mission to accomplish. Sherlock was trying his best to keep Butler as distracted as possible, but there was a hand ready in the pocket of his trousers to start the countdown on the bomb strapped around his ankle. It was a sticky situation that he needed help with. Sherlock could only continue with his charade for maybe a few more minutes, it was a miracle he hadn't bled out hours ago. His coat that was practically a second skin on him at this point and the primitive care that John had administered were the only things keeping him up right-keeping him alive-at the moment.

"What else? Why are we here?" annoyed crows from the crowd yelled at Holmes.

"Because _you_ are the ones that need protecting here," Sherlock retaliated, "and your complaints do nothing to further the investigation."

"What investigation, Holmes?!" Anderson yelled, "nothing is happening here! The kidnapper hasn't struck yet!"

"Are you meaning to tell us that we're bait for Scotland Yard?" a shocked and disdainful member looked to Phillip Anderson with callous eyes.

"N-no, sir, absolutely not!" Anderson stuttered in shock as the growing rants of anger became louder, "Please, calm down!"

"Back away, back away!" Greg Lestrade stepped in front of his forensic analyst, a barrier to keep him away from the advancing crowd.

 _No, this is perfect!_ Holmes thought with new excitement, "Yes, the Yard has been withholding information from you! The kidnapper has his next attack target on the Palace of Westminster and Scotland Yard still allowed you to conduct your meeting. They are to blame!"

"You let us go while we were threatened?"

"How could Scotland Yard betray their own Parliament?!"

"Was the kidnapper going to attack during our meeting?"

"What was the kidnapper going to do?!"  
"Where are his other victims?!"  
"Who cares, they lied to us!

"After them!"

The angry mob of arguing men clumped up into one big army as the few officers guarding the inside perimeter of the building came forward in defense. Their batons were out but they would never dare take a swing at one of the members of the Parliamentary board.

"Lestrade, sir!" a hesitant officer trying to ward off a few of his advancers yelled, "What do we do?!"  
"Easy now, easy!" the DI tried raising his voice and turned to Anderson, "You just _had_ to say something, didn't you?! Sherlock, help! Think of something, quick!"

As Greg turned his head to look at the consulting detective for his next plan of action, he was practically sprawled on the floor. Just resting on his shaky hands and knees, Sherlock had a hand placed in the inside of his coat. As he pulled it out, it came away slick with fresh blood gushing from his wound. Holmes winced and scrunched his eyes for a moment as he swallowed away the pain and grasped the edge of the wooden platform to hoist himself up.

"Holmes!" Lestrade yelled above the surging crowd, "Sherlock!"

The detective didn't flinch, it was as if he didn't hear. As his tall, lanky form attempted to stand on his own two legs, his eyes looked glassy and dull. The lively alertness that had just grasped them moments before had been drained and the ghostly pallor of his skin was now a sickly grey found in corpses. The coat was no longer black, but a sopping burgundy, his hair was sticking to his head with a cold sweat, his baggy eyes bruised with purple rings, his fingers caked with blood, and his temple still oozing blood.

But that wasn't the only movement that had caught his eye. In the far corner of the room, moving back where he couldn't be seen, Butler was making a quick break. This wasn't the time or place to administer his plans any longer. Things became unpredictable, too out of control. There was no gun on him, that had been taken as he entered the Palace and the only weapon on him was the bomb strapped to his ankle. It was to be saved for another day, but how? Sherlock had figured out his identity now so he'd find another way to sneak it in. The situation became uncontrollable, and Butler needed control to operate.

He was inching closer to the door, now that the officers were distracted by the flinging papers and pudgy fists of the Parliament board, he could find a way out without drawing attention to himself-

There was a weight on him, one that practically fell around his neck. In a moment, he saw arms wrap around his throat and legs swing around his hips as someone climbed onto his back and was now choking him. Butler gagged and coughed, the situation suddenly filtering through him. He reversed and crashed into the wall behind him, he turned and flung his body against a sharp pole to throw his attacker off of him. From the suede brown sleeves of the jacket and beige shirt it was John Watson. He should've known, he should've payed more attention! Sherlock's lap dog was hiding in the crowd, slowly closing in on him like prey. This was not right, Butler wasn't supposed to be the hunted, he was the hunter! People needed to fear him, the world must be cleansed, his dark gods must be pleased, his black crafts must be resurrected. There was no time to deal with child's play!

The kidnapper finally pitched forward and John sailed over his head, landing hard on his back against the wooden floor. With the hold gone from around his neck, Butler sucked in well needed breaths of air and stumbled to a standing position. His purple fingers barely clutched onto the ledge as he tumbled forward in an effort to reach the door. Slowly, the officers were handling the crowd before it became a full-scale riot. Sherlock was so clever to urge the crowd on like that. The chaotic mess it made would've made a suitable distraction for Butler to lose focus…and it did just that.

"Stop!" Watson looked horrified in case he would trigger the bomb, "Butler, freeze!"

"Tough luck, Watson!" Butler growled at him, "it's to ran for the door but John's head was still dizzy and he tilted and teetered like a seesaw. From the corner of his eye, Watson gaped as he saw a dark coat come sprinting from the stage. Sherlock leaped at Butler and slammed into his shoulder as he was trying to open the door. Holland turned around, his eyes ablaze, and swung a right fist towards his head. Sherlock dodged it, but not in time. Because of his injuries, he wasn't as fast as he usually responded and the strong punch nailed him straight in his temple. The wound on his head made direct contact with Butler's knuckles and Sherlock fell to the floor hard but not before he reached out and kicked the kidnapper in the knee cap.

An awful crack groaned through the chaotic room as the fighting Parliament members were slowly turning their heads in the direction of Sherlock, John, and Holland. They were in a full brawl now, Watson's shirt was starting to stain red and Sherlock was trying to haul his battered form off the floor. The trouble with Sherlock always was his mind was too smart for his body, he had the mental capability to continue for months but his corporeal needs were always a hinderance to him.

"Anderson! Donovan!" Lestrade shouted as he pushed back the slightly thinning crowd, "Let's move!"

Watson's second thought as he recovered, his head throbbing with a probable concussion, is that the leg that Sherlock kicked had the bomb attached to it. And it was very likely that it could've triggered.

Butler was cursing on the floor, his lame leg bent at an awkward angle as his kneecap was probably dislocated from the force of the kick. His eyes were blazing and he scraped the wall with his fingernails until he was in a relative standing position.

 _"_ _Damn you, Holmes!"_ he snarled so fiercely that spit seemed to be flying like a bulldog, "I'll kill you!"

"Butler, stop it!" Watson tried to clear his muddled head, "Listen, whatever has happened it can all stop now. Please, just untie the bomb from around your ankle, Holland, set it on the floor and we'll let you go," John's hands were raised defensively, "you can walk right out that door, but you know he won't stop if you still have the bomb on you."

"He won't stop either way!" he looked to Sherlock's crawling form who was starting to stand shakily on his feet again, "He's a bloodhound! I tried to make him listen! I plan a better world, John Watson, one that he absolutely cannot be a part of!"

"Holland, you aren't talking sense! Set it down and walk away or I'll have to take it from you. Look," John gestured behind him, "most of them are still arguing, you still have a chance to escape."

"Why would you help me, John?" Butler's eyes were suspicious, "I attacked you, I stabbed you for Christ's sake, you have nothing to owe me."

"You are absolutely right," his gaze darkened, "I loathe you, Holland Butler, but my best friend is lying over there right now half dead and there's a bomb attached to your ankle standing in the middle of the Palace of Westminster. My options are limited at this point."

"I have all the control here, John," Butler laughed, his hand dug into his pocket and pulled out the small remote that triggered the explosive, "two minutes. If I clicked it now and still managed to hobble away I wouldn't get far enough out of distance. There would still be a gaping whole in the side of London!" his eyes were alive with excitement.

"Don't do that, Butler, don't or I will be forced to stop you."

"But oh dear," Butler had fake sadness plastered on his face, "Sherlock doesn't look too good."

"Sherlock?" John's heart started to race, "Sherlock…?" he cautiously turned his head, too scared at what he would find, "No, Holmes!" John took a step forward, but Butler's finger hovered dangerously over the trigger button. Watson's best mate was sprawled on the floor, flat on his stomach. The coat was seeping the red blood that was oozing from his abdomen and temple. A freezing cold wave passed through his entire body unsure if the ashen face of Sherlock meant that the detective had died.

"What to do, what to do, Watson?" Holland laughed, "Sherlock might be out of time!"

"You bastard!" He surged forward a few steps but Butler's fingertip rested on the red button, it was pushed slightly down.

"Ah, ah, ah, not so fast," he tutted, "unless you want to join Sherlock, I highly advise against it."

"Butler, freeze," Lestrade came out with his gun and stood side-by-side with Watson, "put it down. Now."

"And what makes you think I'll do that, Lestrade?" Butler laughed, "I'm not so easily fooled as you are. Oh, how you ate up my little detective disguise. I'm sure you were even convinced on hiring old little Holland Butler, weren't you?"

"What's your real name, scum?!" he spat, anger and betrayal scarring his gaze.

"Lestrade, please," Watson's voice cracked, "where's Anderson and Donovan, please we need an ambulance for Holmes, I don't know, I think he's-"

"I'm sorry, Watson, I truly am," Greg's voice was defeated but his eyes were intent upon Butler as well as his gun, "but everyone is clearing out the Palace, all officers are evacuating the perimeter. You hear that, Butler? They're gone! Look around you, there's no one for you to kidnap anymore, you sick bastard!"

His nose flared for a moment and his jaw set in anger, but he still had a cool look on his face, "It doesn't matter, Lestrade, either way this building comes down. You can shoot me and my body cannot be transported to a safe distance fast enough for the two minutes that it take for the bomb to explode. If either of you take one step then my finger presses down and we're all trapped in here, understand? It's a lose for you, but either way I'll die triumphant."

"I understand, Holland, I do," Watson's flushed face and dragging heart looked to the criminal in plea, "but please, let me just go to Sherlock, please, let me see if he's all right."

"He's clearly not, John Watson, don't think you can save him at this point. The man is dead-"

"Oh, come on, Butler, I can't believe you to be so bad a chap that you let a man watch his best mate die before his eyes. I'm not going to try anything, not while you have that remote in your hand. Let Watson go to him," Lestrade bargained.

"Drop your gun first."

"You know I can't do that," he smirked drily.

"Fine, John," Holland rolled his eyes, "just check his pulse and that's it. Stray for a moment longer and I'll press down, I'm not bluffing."

Watson rushed over, Lestrade and Butler still in their standoff.

"Oh no, oh no, Sherlock, no," his eyes were wide with shock and grief as he looked down at the bloody sight of his friend in his arms, "Holmes, no, no!"

"Well, is he alive?" Butler called, "Or has the old bastard gone off now?"

"H-he's dead."

"What?" Lestrade's voice was deadpan, unable to channel the shock and rage going through him like adrenaline, "No he's not."

John's hand was pressed against the bridge of his nose, his face a mask of depression. Butler couldn't tell if tears were falling from his face, but his one hand was pressed against the chest of the fallen detective in a manner of a final goodbye.

"All right, that's enough, step away," Holland growled, "or this whole building blows."

"John, it's not true, right? Sherlock, he isn't dead-he can't be."

"Come to terms with it, Lestrade, that's soon to be your fate too." Holland smiled, grimly.

"What do you want to do now then, huh, Butler?" the detective inspector was blazing with grief and rage, "This ends now."

"You let me go, Lestrade, out the back door and it'll all be over. I'll be gone, I'll leave, and you'll never hear from me again."

"Well, you can't very well walk now can you," he scoffed, "and you can't expect me to just let you walk, not after everything you've done."

"Send Watson over, he's a doctor, isn't he?"

Lestrade's jaw tightened as from the side of his vision he saw the pale Watson stagger away from the body of his friend, "No, you can't expect him to do that now, not after his friend-"

"No," Watson's voice was low and serious, "I'll do it."

"Atta boy, John," Holland smiled, "come here now, get to work."

"John, you don't need to do this," Lestrade's finger tightened on the trigger.

"The sooner this psychopath is out of my sight and life, the better off I am."

John trudged over to the spot where the kidnapper was holding onto, supporting his limp knee. Watson cautiously approached, very aware he was in the middle of two extremely dangerous, highly fatal weapons.

"Make it quick," Butler huffed.

"Make it painful," Lestrade added darkly.

John felt around with his nimble fingers under the pant leg for Butler's knee cap. It was obviously dislocated, the bone shifted slightly to the right. There was utter loathing and hatred radiating off of him and he knew that all of them couldn't last like this any longer. It needed to end.

Watson held the bone in his fingers and crushed it down hard, "NOW, Sherlock!"  
Like a scene from a suspense thriller, Holland howled in pain, his hand opening and the remote dropping from his grip. It seemed it was all happening in slow motion. Watson leaped forward as he moved to grab the falling remote. Sherlock, on the other hand, turned his body and from inside his coat he pulled out a revolver-John's revolver. There were two reverberating shots that echoed through the empty Palace walls and a splatter of blood.

Holland's wide frozen eyes were in shock as he saw the emotionless face of the clearly live Sherlock Holmes staring straight into his soul. The life drained out of him as the blood from his two new bullet holes dripped with the burgundy liquid. The shots were buried in his chest deep, through and through. He gave a last, perplexed look to Sherlock Holmes and John Watson who held the remote in hand before the light died and he slumped against the wall. Dead.

 **Chapter 16 will be released soon!**


	16. Chapter 16

**Second to last chapter, enjoy!**

"Sherlock!" John stumbled over, throwing the remote of the bomb far away and breaking it in half before dumping it, "Sherlock!"

"Bloody hell," Lestrade accompanied the army doctor as they sprinted to the detective's side, "Holmes, please, just h-hold on."

Sherlock didn't have an ounce of strength left, the only movement his muscles could manage were the gentle release of John's revolver from his fingers. When Watson had come to his side and knelt by him, Sherlock quickly flashed his eyes to John, a finger to his lips signaling silence. If you wanted to bait a vulture, you needed to play dead possum. Holmes was doing just that with his act and was sincerely hoping John would make his way over. Watson pressed the gun from the inside of his coat very discreetly in his hand, it barely seemed there was any movement at all. Then it was a matter of waiting.

Butler was dead.

The victims were found.

The plan foiled.

The mystery solved.

Now, all he wanted was to let go. Sherlock felt himself fading fast despite the efforts of Lestrade and Watson kept urging him with. He tried the hardest he could to keep his eyes open and his fingers held a death grip on John's arm. He wasn't dying, that wasn't an option. Sherlock Holmes had too many more cases to solve to be six feet under than deducting the decomposition of the body with the worms in a casket. No.

Besides, he had already done that experiment, it would be boring now.

"John," he strained, a bloody taste was bitter against his tongue, "d-don't-"

"Don't speak," Watson was untying Sherlock's coat. The second he opened the fabric from their tight wraps, it was gruesome. Watson had never felt so shaken with worry in his entire life, even in Afghanistan with bombs falling against his own back, there was no amount of dread that filled him that could surmount to what he was feeling now, "Lestrade, damn it, phone an ambulance!"

Greg was fumbling with his mobile, his face white with shock and fading adrenaline. The moment John opened Sherlock's coat, the cell almost slipped out of his hands. His eyes were wide in frozen shock, he was stunned in a moment of paralysis.

"W-Watson, can he survive?! No, that can't be-that's-no!"

"Greg, calm down!" Watson barked, "Get it together, phone right now or so help me, Lestrade, I will never help you again! Now, GO!"  
Greg held the shaking phone to his ear as he stumbled a little away to call in the ambulance. He was sure they were already on their way, but it gave him something to take his mind off of all the blood.

"Watson," Sherlock said a little more clearly, his tired eyes open with urgency, "Listen, to me," he cleared his throat, but more of the coppery taste stung his throat, "you-you cannot-"

"Shh, Holmes, no, stop talking," Watson's breathing was so elevated and rapid, Holmes thought he was going to have a heart attack on the spot, "you will be fine, you hear me? Trust me, nothing to worry about," John was pressing his skilled palms against the open wound that kept bleeding, "Butler got you good, didn't he?"

At the mention of the name, Sherlock stiffened and then ground his teeth with the pain of the small movement. He wanted to look at the body, he wanted to see the death in the man's eyes.

"Help me up," he said shakily.

"Stay down, you're staying down, you can't get up," John's voice cracked, his fears that if he lost sight of Sherlock one more time, his best friend would die in his arms for real this time.

"J-John, please," Sherlock flinched and tried to move his arm, "I need to-"

"No!" his temper flared, "Stay down, Sherlock! Lestrade, tell me where that ambulance is now!"

"I want to see him," Holmes' eyes were unclear.

"No, no, you don't," John shivered, "this talk is only temporary, i-it's from the blood loss, Sherlock, your hurt, your body is tired, this is to be expected, okay?"

John felt a sudden shift in his mate's breathing, it was like ripped and tattered puffs stabbing his lungs. The haggard and labored breaths were visible in the hyperventilation stage of Sherlock's condition.

"Oh no, oh no, no, no, no, Sherlock, stay with me! Stay with me!" Watson felt a lump form in his throat, "Lestrade!"

Sherlock's eyes were wide and emotionless, like glass orbs staring into the distance as his gasping form tried their hardest to take gulps of air it needed.

There was only on small movement. His pupils flitted to look straight into his own, his lips formed the beginning of a word and died out as Sherlock's head slumped against John's arm and his eyes slid closed.

"Damn it! Lestrade, where is that ambulance!? He's almost gone!"

"Watson," Greg came running up to him, "Almost here, John, two minutes they said!"

"That's too late," he mumbled under his breath impatiently, "that's too late," his hands were pressing so hard against Sherlock's side, they were white and purple with effort.

"" Greg dry washed his face with his hands, "all right, all right, what do we do?"

"I can't find the source of the bleeding without letting go. Lestrade, he'll bleed out on me if I stop," John's emotionless response scared Greg a little, "you need to press down."

"What?!" the DI took a step back.

"Right here," Watson impatiently reached up with his blood soaked hand and forcefully pulled Lestrade down to Sherlock's level to keep pressure on his wound.

"What do we do now, Watson?" Greg's temper flared, "What's your big plan now?!"

"It's my fault, Lestrade!" John returned angrily, "I didn't listen to him, his detective partner-his best friend-and I didn't even listen! What kind of mate do you call me them, huh? So don't lecture me yet and _press down_!"

Both of them perked up, anger forgotten, when the sirens of the ambulance started to near.

"Ah, yes!" Greg looked up hopefully, "They're here!"

"Sherlock, keep it together," Watson clambered over to his head and checked his pupil reaction. They reacted, albeit a little sluggishly, due to the temple wound Holmes had sustained during his kidnapping. Watson breathed a sigh of relief, but his heart was still tangled into knots.

"Okay, John," he looked up to see that Lestrade's sole concentration was on keeping his two palms steady as a statue against Sherlock's bloodsoaked side, "look, I'm sorry-"

Both men froze in utter fear as Sherlock gasped below them. His eyes opened up wide, scary wide, like he was in a trance and some force had gotten hold of his body. Greg was so startled he jumped back, his hands coming away from Holmes' bleeding side.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, "What's wrong?! Holmes, it's okay, the paramedics are almost here-"

Before he could finish, the detective sat up and started coughing-hacking. The DI was afraid he'd cough up his own tonsils as violent tremors shook his form and blood started to spout from his lips.

"Oh, bloody hell!" Greg yelled and scrambled back to steer clear of the blood dripping from Sherlock's lips.

"I think he's bleeding internally," Watson's game face was on, his features looking weathered and haggard but determined all the same. He caught Sherlock's back as he fell back once more, blood staining his clothes and face.

"Medics are here, Watson!" Lestrade shouted in relief as the great wooden doors burst open with men in highlighter yellow gear rushing in with equipment and a gurney in hand.

"Sir, you need to move!" Watson heard their shouts fall upon deaf ears as he was determined not to leave his friend once again. Now that Lestrade's extremities were absent from Sherlock's abdomen wound, he was hell bent on keeping pressure against the bleeding source.

"Sir!"

"Watson!"

Finally, two strong medics clutched him by his arms and pulled him back. Even Watson's formidable strength didn't stop them as he cursed and pulled against their grip in order to care for his friend. He saw the emergency medical team descend like vultures upon the fallen body of his friend and he couldn't tear his eyes away.

They stripped him of his coat that hit the ground with a _splat!_ due to all the blood, sweat, and sewage it had soaked up. Watson pulled forward but pulled back roughly once more.

"Hey, let him go," Lestrade said sternly, his eyes hard, "don't you treat him like that, that's his best mate."

"Sir, I will warn you as well, if you become an interference to the process too, I will have you held back as well."

"Don't treat him like some animal, that's his friend lying on the ground there who just rescued-"

"He's crashing!"

All heads turned as the three men who surrounded the detective urgently reached for the defibrillator.

"What's happening, what's going on?" John looked at all of them in turn, "h-his heart, his BP is it normal? Please, just let me get to him, I'm a doctor! I know what to do-"

"Paddles ready," the low, deep voices of the medics echoed through the room as Lestrade turned away, his head in his hands as Watson was fixated on the image of his best friend on the floor possibly knocking on Death's Door.

"Charge to 300."

"Charging, 3,2,1"

"Clear!"

The horrible electrical whiz made Watson stiffen. Sherlock's body jumped in the air and flattened again, no sign of movement flooding his pale and blood stained limbs.

"Nothing, charge again."

"350"

"Charging."

"3,2,1"

"Clear!"

The whole exchange was so fluid and calm between the medics that John felt surreal. This couldn't be happening to him right now, he wasn't watching his best friend Sherlock Holmes crashing in the middle of the Palace of Westminster.

A tantalizing second passed.

Sherlock took a breath.

"We got a heartbeat."

"Alright, quickly, get him on the gurney."

"I've got C-Spine."

"Log roll, 3,2,1."

The paramedics gently rolled Sherlock on the gurney and carried him up from the floor, he was attached to the cart and was rushed out. The medics were screaming at the public to clear the way as John broke away from the clutches holding him down and sprinted in their direction.

Greg shook his head and wobbled, his entire body weighed down with exhaustion. He slid against the wood-carved wall and rested a hand against his forehead. He was ready to have a nice leave from work for a little.

"Lestrade!"  
The familiar voice of Sally Donovan echoed from the entrance and he looked up, "Donovan? Oh, thank God, are the Parliament members safe? Did you evacuate?"

"Yeah, I did, but to hell with them," she ran over, "are you okay? What happened?"

Her eyes caught sight of the corpse of Holland Butler lying limply against the wall, "B-Butler? I-is that Holland Butler?" her voice was a horrified whisper, her eyes not leaving the sight of his emotionless corpse returning her gaze.

"Now, now, Donovan, it's all right, I can explain it all, just-"

"Detective Inspector," Anderson's voice now reached his ears. He looked over Donovan's rigid shoulder to see the forensic analyst approaching, "Glad to see you're okay, boss, but did I hear the paramedics correctly? That there is a body in here?"

Donovan stepped to the side, a gruesome look in her eyes and gestured to Butler's body against the wall, dead.

"Holland Butler?" Anderson's voice had a tint of shock, "What happened? Lestrade, who did this? He will be caught, I'm sure of it."

"It's not what you think," the detective inspector shook his head and pulled the two away as a new paramedic team walked over to the body of Holland Butler and began to load his corpse on the gurney, a white sheet pulled over him, "Sherlock-"

"Sherlock!" Anderson's eyes blazed, "I knew he'd take it too far one day, Lestrade, I knew it! This is outrageous! Murder!"

"Calm down, Anderson," Lestrade barked, "the circumstances were extremely different than what you expect, Holmes is a hero."

"A hero?" Donovan tried to sound surprised but she was reminded of him saving them all while poisoned with Gerry Price in Scotland Yard, "What happened?"

"Anderson, when you were walking in..did you see another body?"

"Another body?" he was still upset but had calmed down a little, "other than the one being wheeled out right now," he dipped his head as Butler's body bag passed by, "there was a bloke who looked real critical. Blood everywhere, couldn't make out his face though, all the medics were around him."

"Damn," he ran a hand through his hair, "was Watson following?"

"Watson?" Phillip was taken aback, the gears in his mind turning, "If John was following..then that only means…"

"Lestrade, are you saying that bloke out there half dead…is Sherlock Holmes?" Donovan's face was a mask of seriousness.

"Y-yes, unfortunately, it is."

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" John wrestled through the crowd, one hand clutching his own bleeding side.

In front of him, he saw media cameras all pointed at the body being loaded into the ambulance with highlighter yellow jackets surrounding him. The medical swarm was inserting tubes, IVs, monitors, and all sorts into the battered body of his friend who had an oxygen mask fitted around his nose. His pale grey shirt was finally revealed from underneath his coat and the color was unrecognizable.

Watson sighed in defeat as he was still a few yards away from the ambulance doors which closed right in front of his face. It barricaded everyone from reporters to paparazzi, even John Watson. The blue and red sirens blared through the parking lot and Sherlock was hauled away in its depths.

"Watson!" he turned his head, "Watson!"

"Sergeant Donovan?" he panted, his entire body buzzing with anxiety and urgency.

"John, are you all right-"

"Take me to the hospital," he faced her head on, his voice all seriousness, "now."

"W-what?" she was taken aback.

"They've taken Sherlock there, I need you to give me a ride in the squad car. Flash your lights, sound your sirens, I don't care, just get me there," he brushed past her shoulder, jogging to the nearest police car.

"John, wait! You're disorientated, you're grieving, I can't allow you to-"

"Grieving?!" he turned on her, "I'll only grieve when Sherlock is dead."

"Well, did you look at the sight of him?" an annoyingly familiar voice sounded from behind him. Anderson came up follow by Lestrade.

"Phillip, don't test me," Watson's eyes narrowed.

"Calm down," Donovan stepped in between them, "John, you're hurt," her eyes flitted down towards the growing blood stain on his shirt.

"It's Sherlock's blood," Watson lied.

"No, it's not," Greg shook his head despondently, "John, if you go it'll be hell for you. Seeing your best friend, Sherlock no less, it'll break your heart."  
"Lestrade, when did you suddenly possess the authority to tell me what I can and cannot do," he snarled, "just take me there."

Greg held his glare for a few more moments, realizing there was no arguing with him, "Fine, Donovan, let's take him."

Sally hopped into the driver's seat, Anderson in the passenger, and Greg and John squishing into the back. Watson was careful as he lowered himself down into the seat, a small sigh of pain the only indication of his ailment.

"Anderson, throw me some towels," Greg ordered and caught them as the forensic analyst tossed them back, "Here," he handed them to John, "keep pressure on them. It's the the third time your stitches have ripped. Doctors are gonna be bloody pissed."

He nodded in thanks and kept the fabric hard against his wound, cringing slightly.

"John, grab some rest, even with the sirens, it'll be a while before we get there. Traffic is going to be flooding now that the cameras have caught Sherlock Holmes en route to the hospital."

"Found after a kidnapping no less," Anderson sighed as Watson tried to ignore his comments and set his head against the leather seat. The high-strung situation and the anxiety that he had been holding in for so long finally let loose and he closed his eyes.

John was startled half awake when he heard Sally cursing off another driver honking at their squad car, "Oh, come on, you bloody pig! I'm police!"

There were muffled yells returning to her and she flashed a badge, "I'll arrest you, you fog horned bastard!"

She gave the horn one last loud honk before revving the engine and speeding forward. The car jostled uncomfortably and Lestrade was holding the seat in dear life.

"Donovan, we almost lost our life once today, I'm not inclined to chance it again," he gulped.

"Sorry, boss," her frustration still leaking into her tone, "the nerve of some people."

"How's Watson back there?" Anderson turned his head to Lestrade, "Still alive?"

John was still exhausted and he kept his eyes closed to hear how the rest of the conversation played out.

"Yeah, still asleep."

"Poor bastard," Anderson shook his head, "dragged into this mess."  
Watson bit his tongue from responding.

"No one asked for this, Phillip," Greg countered, "Not even Sherlock."

"Yeah, but he escalated the situation, I mean he got him stabbed for God's sake and look where that's left him."

Lestrade eyed the staining towels pressed against his side, "Either way, they're a team Anderson. You don't think Sherlock has beat himself up about what happened?"

"Him? Are you kidding? He was probably more beat up about the fact the kidnapper got away and didn't leave a fingerprint for him to analyze than his best friend's possible death."

"Phillip, don't you ever feel bad for the bloke?" Donovan rebuked, "I mean, how many cases does he have to solve? How many lives does he have to save, including yours, before you finally see what's in front of you?"

"I don't doubt his abilities, however freakish they may be," he scoffed, "but he leaves destruction wherever he goes. Have we lost so much of our own self-respect or confidence in our work to allow some free-lance psychopath, as equally as destructive as some of his cases, to help us without any limits? Explain to me how that does not go against any of our own principles."

The car was silent for a moment, the only audible sound was the dull blare of the sirens.

"We're almost to the hospital," Donovan spoke quietly, "Lestrade, wake up John, he needs some medical attention as well."

 **The final chapter will be released soon!**


	17. Chapter 17

**The Final Chapter! Enjoy!**

Sherlock felt light start to peek through his opening eyelids. The blue irises were sluggishly flitting back and forth as a ball of light as vibrant as the sun seemed to be staring straight at him. There was a flood of noise draining in and out of his head, and movements running to and fro.

He felt in a curious state for a moment, confused and pondering until it hit him.

Holland Butler was dead.

Immediately, Sherlock shot up. A tidal wave of pain drowned him and he groaned as he fell back down, his teeth grounding in anger at this utter inconvenience.

"Whoa! You're awake?!" the detective heard a gruff female voice speak in an urgent tone, "No, no, it's too soon! I thought you said he'd been given a sedative!"

As he lay there he wondered for a moment. _A sedative?_ It was unnecessary, of course-

Then he felt it. It hit him like a 2 mile long freight train. The white hot painful sensation that suddenly shot into him with full force was terrifyingly real. He immediately flinched and groaned, trying to suppress his feelings as usual but this was demanding and _extremely_ noticeable. All over his body from his head, to his side, to his stomach, to his chest, to his legs, and every possible destination, it was excruciating.

Sherlock didn't yell, thrash, scream, or cry, but his vision was clouding even more now. He felt something wet spot his lips and from his faint vision it was dark red. His corporeal needs were always such a hinderance to him and right now it was a very real possibility they were fatal.

Sherlock was trying to take deep breaths, the nurse in his ER room had run out for more medication and he was alone and in brutal pain. From the looks of it, it had seemed he had just arrived. In fact, he still had his clothes on and his chest felt like it was on fire as he lay flat in the hospital bed. The green sheets under him were already bloody, but his blue eyes were staring straight ahead. They were open wide and panicked. They probably had to shock him back to life with the defibrillator and that was just such a _joyous_ feeling accompanied with a beating from a crowbar and a stab wound.

"Arrghh! Where in the bloody hell is that damn nurse?!" Sherlock finally cracked, his voice was strained to the point it sounded like it would snap.

He needed attention and he needed it now. There was no one in the room, his heart monitor above him was beeping like crazy, and his vision was blurring and turning upside down. He slid off the bed, holding his side, blood dripping his from lips, sweat pouring down his face, and he crashed to the floor. His shaking knees hardly held up his weight as with his free long arm he jammed it onto the medical table above his head. Sherlock crashed the metal tray to the floor where syringes and medicine bottles clattered before his eyes. He picked one up that was labeled with something that seemed like it was sent from God itself: morphine.

He plunged the needle straight into his chest, the tingling affects already starting to dull the engulfing pain that had consumed his weak form. He crashed to the floor, another cough taking hold as more blood came out, and the nurse _finally_ came back in.

"Oh, God," she dropped her own syringe and knelt beside him, "I need a crash cart, I need some help! He's stuck himself!"

"What?!" the curtain opened again and a man in a white coat stood with a shocked look on his face, "Gretchen, what's going on?"

"Sir, it's-it's Sherlock Holmes."

The name registered. The doctor's eyes widened like saucers and he rushed forward in action.

"Push one of epipen, I need to identify what he's administered," the doctor slapped his latex gloves on his hands, "Someone tell me what-"

"Morphine!" Sherlock snapped, "I gave myself morphine, you idiot-ah!" he growled as another spasm radiated across his chest, "Because you morons didn't give me any!"

The doctor was so shocked he stepped back as Sherlock rested himself against the plastic leg of the hospital bed. His thrashing had down down only just a little and he was still shaking with pain and exhaustion. There was shallow breaths coming out of his debilitated form, but he seemed a little more at ease.

"Breath sounds aren't good, doctor," Gretchen the Nurse looked up at the still frozen physician. She was crouched next to the famous detective, her gloved hands holding a small device pressed against his wrist. The dark black rings around his eyes and the clammy ashen pallor of his face was what she was used to seeing on corpses in the morgue, "heart rate plummeting, we're going to lose him any second," she turned to Sherlock who looked at her with semi-alert eyes. Her heart clenched in sympathy, "Sir, I have no idea how you are even awake right now, but in a few seconds you're going to pass out, do you understand? We are going to try and revive you, the epipen is already moving through your system, but I'm afraid not quickly enough."

"Trust me," he strained, his voice a strangled gasp, his vision turning black, and the room feeling distant, "I've…been down…this path…before…"

His eyes rolled into the back of his head and the doctor team descended again.

"Charging…3,2,1…Clear!"

"Where is he? Where is he?" John pushed past the shoulders of people crowding the ER desk, "Where in God's hell is he?!"

"John!" he immediately turned around as Donovan called his name. Watson sprinted back through the crowd towards the sergeant who had pulled aside a young man in pale blue scrubs. He was staring at her badge nervously and in his hands was a freshly cleaned bedpan.

"Can I help you, sir?" the male nurse asked hesitantly.

"John, this is David, he can help," Sergeant Donovan had a firm grip on his shoulder.

"David, hi, I'm John Watson," he quickly sped through the formalities.

"Yeah, I know who you are," he stammered, "follow your blog."

"Good chap," he nodded, "now, then you know why I'm here."

"The Devil's Assassin case, sir," he ducked his head, "I've been following your posts."

"Very well, then you know who I am looking for, correct?"

"The whole hospital is buzzing about it, Mr. Watson, sir," David looked at him with wide eyes, "Sherlock Holmes is in the Emergency Department."  
"Good, now can you tell me where in Emergency I can find him."  
"The front entrance is right around-"

"No, David, you don't understand. Sherlock Holmes is in the hospital, understand? _Sherlock Holmes._ The press are out there flying like vultures to get a shot of him in here and I can't wrestle my way through security while all of them flock outside. Now, David, you've been a great help. Can you tell me if there is a back entrance I can take to get directly to his room?"

"Well, though the surgical floor, I suppose. It's right next to it in case of an immediate operation."

"Of course, David, of course," John nodded, "how can I get through?"

He looked around cautiously, "I don't think our Head Nurse would like it if I…" his voice dropped off as he eyed Donovan's hand inch ever so closely to the hilt of her gun.

"David, why don't you think again on that answer."  
"This way," he led them to a supply closet where shelves were stacked with the same pale blue scrubs David was fitted into. He handed them surgical masks and caps to blend in as he also gave them gloves and clipboards to hold in their hands.

"Look, you're disguised as scrub nurses, all right? I'm just a regular ICU nurse, I don't have clearance," David whispered in the dark of the closet, "Now, you make it to the floor, go straight through until you hit emergency. Once you're there you can find your friend. But beware, you walk through the main lobby as well and I heard it's a real red carpet down there."

"What does he mean?" Donovan looked to John.

Watson sighed in frustration, "Cameramen, reporters, journalists, photographers, magazine employees-all of them. They're waiting."

"We got it, John," Donovan whispered as she handed him his mask and scrubs, "get in there. Greg, Phillip, and I will handle the press."

"Thanks," he rushed in fitting on the outfit.

"Before you go," she stopped him and held out some gauze pads, "for your stitches. When you're in, I'll send someone down to look at them for you."  
He nodded in thanks and shed his bloody shirt from his body. He pressed the gauze

pads against the wounds in his side and bit his lip from crying out,

"Off you go," he slipped the strings off the face mask over his ears and walked out leaving Donovan to go the other way to meet up with her team.

"Emergency, emergency," John recited under his breath as his eyes tried to focus on any sign that led him to that department. Last he left Sherlock, the bloke was practically dead in his arms. It was imperative he go to make sure that his best friend survived.

"Emergency!" he yelled triumphantly as he sprinted through the double swinging doors. John heard the flurry of the press before he saw them. There were camera shutters clicking, people talking, and Lestrade yelling above the clamor stuffed in the waiting room. Watson kept his scrub cap on tight and his face mask on as he stuck the gauze pads against his stitches and walked on.

"Sir, sir! What can you tell us about the detective Sherlock Holmes' involvement in the Palace of Westminster attack?"

"Wha-there was no attack!" Greg yelled, "Well, there was-but not an attack _attack,_ more like a situation that was dealt with."

"But if it wasn't an attack, why is Mr. Holmes currently in emergency care?" another microphoned man thrust his way forward.

"I am not inclined to answer anything medically related, talk to the doctors if you have to."

"Please, we're going to need you to step back!" Sally tried to move the pushing reporters back with Greg.

"But what about John Watson?"

The army doctor froze in his tracks.

"What about him?" Greg was still elbowing his way back.

"Where is the doctor?"

"Is he with Sherlock?"

"Can he answer some questions?"  
"John Watson has currently vacated the premises," Lestrade fed the hungry newscasters, "he is recovering at home with a long deserved rest-"

A nurse brushed past John's shoulder. He hissed in pain as his hand pressed down into his wounded side and he hit the wall. Watson looked down, horrified, as the scrub mask fell from his face.

He looked up to see that nearly thirty faces were looking at him, including camera lenses and microphone heads.

It was silent for a moment.

"Watson!"

"Mr. Watson!"

"John, what can you say about the attack during the meeting today?"

"Mr. Watson, is Parliament finally safe from these kidnappings?"

"Watson, did you find the missing victims of the kidnapper?"

"Dr. Watson!"

"Mr. John Watson!"

He looked up at the crowd pushing past the chairs and the advancing officers and he knew that in a matter of seconds he'd be swarmed. John fled down the hall holding his side until he pulled up to a nurse's station. He demanded to know where his friend was being kept and the old woman pointed a crooked finger down the dark hall. It was nearing nightfall so the dim lights were beginning to flare to life. John took a deep breath and begin to trek down the corridor until he stopped in front of the door labeled "Sherlock Holmes."  
The wooden door was closed and the lights inside were off. Watson turned the knob and stepped inside quietly. It was black as night when he stepped inside. The only lights in the room where the ones blinking off the heart monitor.

His stats were not bad but not good either…better considering he almost lost them completely a few short hours ago. John ran his hands over his face and held the bridge of is nose. He needed a vacation. That was for sure.

John couldn't see Sherlock through the shadowy dark, but he welcomed the darkness. He could barely take two steps before falling and he felt his way for a chair and set himself down. Watson tore the soiled pads from his abdomen and exhaled deeply. He felt like he wasn't able to do that for ages, ever since the start of this case. It was only a few days ago that he was assigned it and already a roller coaster of events had accompanied it.

He let loose some of his tension and finally mustered up the courage to go and seek his best friend.

"John, it's nice to see you here."

Watson sputtered in his step. What the-?! He didn't think that anyone was in the room with him! A shiver drew its way down his spine.

"Mycroft?" he stuttered.

"Yes, Watson, do keep up."

"Ah, bloody hell, you gave me a fright," John exhaled with relief.

"Don't you think you've dealt with one two many of those today?"

He still couldn't see the older Holmes until a small bedside lamp flicked on. Mycroft was standing next to it, his hand under the lampshade as he looked at John through the dim light.

"You could say that," John shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, "and the vultures are circling out there."

"Yes, well, wherever my brother goes people are bound to follow," Mycroft looked down at the sight of his sibling still in the hospital bed.

John hesitantly rose from his chair once again, careful to make sure that no one else would give him a surprise visit in the room.

The minute he saw Sherlock, he turned his eyes away. John had survived war, that bloody battlefield in Afghanistan where lives were ripped out from good men every second. But those deaths were quick, so fleeting in the moment as a hundred bullets ripped by your head to try and strike you down next. This was a tantalizingly slow torture, unsure if whether death should claim his friend or not. The dark shadows around his eyes looked like purple-black bruises that resembled the color of the evening sky, his skin was paper-white like a ghost, his eyes were closed, his hair in a curly disarray. Sherlock's thin form was fitted in a hospital gown that was peeking out from under the blanket pulled up to his chest. There was an oxygen mask on his nose and mouth and stitches, wraps, and tubes coming out from his skin like vines.

"My, God," John shook his head, "what a mess this was."  
"Ah, it wasn't so bad," Mycroft shrugged and ignored the absurd glare delivered by Watson.

"Wasn't so bad? Mycroft, he barely survived!"

"Every day is a hazard in this life, John, you walk out in the street and you don't know if the person eating a sandwich next to you is a terrorist about to blow you to clouds or a gunman waiting to shoot you as families come and go for their last possible meal," the older brother spoke nonchalantly about the gruesome subjects, "besides, it's not as bad as his younger days. He once attempted to throw himself in front of cars to see how fast the human reaction time would trigger in high-threatening situations. It was one of his experiments, of course, mum thought he was suicidal."

"But you didn't?" John couldn't imagine seeing Sherlock as a teenager, watching him grow into a mind too great for an ordinary man to handle.

"No," Mycroft said resolutely, "it may be hard for you to believe, but I trust my brother," he paused, "most of the time."

"Well, today he took a hit," John walked up to the foot of the bed, "what are the doctors saying?"

"The stab wound was deep but not infected, but the wound at his temple left him with a severe concussion and a rather ghastly bruise. Suffered some internal bleeding, they managed to thin it out a little, but he's under observation. Lots of bruising everywhere, looks like he was beat around a little with a crowbar. Other than that, over exhaustion, lack of nutrients, the usual when it comes to him on a case," Mycroft concluded.

"I'm surprised he lasted that long," Watson shook his head, "anyone in his position would've just collapsed."  
"Yes, the doctors said the same," he nodded.

"How long have you been here, Mycroft?" Watson narrowed his eyes. A part of him was taken aback. The older Holmes kept surprising him with his affection for his brother. It never seemed to him that he cared for Sherlock so much on account of all of their feuds, but he was here in Sherlock's time of need.

"Not long, just leaving actually," Mycroft hoisted his cane, prepared to flee at any mention of him involving affection.

"Don't leave on my account, Mycroft," Watson smiled, "I know you want to stay with him."

He looked down at his shoes and then his brother, not saying a word.

"I need to get back to the flat anyway," he started to walk to the door, "Mrs. Hudson is probably worried sick and it's about time I took a nice bath."

"Yes, well," Mycroft looked around awkwardly, "I'll tell him you stopped by when he awakes."

John gave Sherlock one last long look before stepping out the door.

Sherlock felt groggy as his tired eyelids opened. A stream of soft light filtered through the room and under his fingertips was a soft pillow. The mattress felt familiar to his body and he looked around to see a comforting image of a periodic table against his forest green bedroom walls. He was back at 221B.

The events he witnessed before were as clear to him as the chemical symbols of every element he memorized when he was three years old. There was tea cooking on the stove, he could smell the herbal leaves broiling. That meant John was probably home because it was Earl Grey.

 _John_. His concerns immediately traveled to his friend. He needed to get up and see f he was-

"Ah!" Sherlock growled and he held his lower waist as a new spark of stinging pain gripped him. That was where his stab wound was, he remembered the sharp metal point digging into his skin deep. His bed was like a makeshift hospital bed. There were no sheets that smelled of antiseptic and they were the same pale blue as nurse's scrubs. He was wearing a white t-shirt and gray trousers and there was an IV stand right next to the leg of his bed.

Unnecessary contraptions. Sherlock pulled them out roughly and took a deep breath before putting both feet on the ground and pushing up. It was rough and shaky, his head was heavy and his vision tilting with dizziness, but he stood. He must've suffered a concussion in the midst of all the flurry that had met him the last few days. That seemed like a mild consequence. In fact, he had killed a man. A horrible man, one who was threatening the lives of the people of England. No doubt Phillip Anderson would come strolling by in an effort to press charges against him. It was self defense, not just for himself, but for the whole of Great Britain. He had saved Parliament essentially.

Sherlock tentatively put one foot in front of the other. His vision was still swimming, but he felt a little surer as he traveled farther. His sore eyes were focused in on the doorknob and he practically fell against the old, chipping door.

How long had he been out for? It must've been at least two days. He felt a little better, a little more rested, but exhaustion still clung onto him like a second skin and he could feel the tendrils of sleep starting to climb.

No, he would see John first.

The detective opened the door, the low creak echoing through the flat like an eerie howl. Sherlock heard the plates stop clattering and a figure appear at the bottom of the stairs. The army doctor looked tired but content, his silver hair was neatly combed, there was a dishrag in his hands, and he was wearing clean clothing.

"Sherlock?" John muttered from the bottom of the stairs.

"John," Sherlock cleared his throat, "I-"

"Hold on, don't come down, I'll be up in a moment."

That was good, because the stairs were looking to be quite a challenge.

Sherlock traveled back into his bedroom and flopped down on the bed, practically falling into it. His footing was still questionable and his brain started to pound as new light poured into the room and his concussed head complained.

"Holmes," Watson's shoulder leaned against the doorway as he say his friend attempting to fit back into his old skin as Sherlock Holmes who was running around all over London in an hour, "no, no, no, you're staying right here and getting some rest."

"I already have, for how many days now?"

"You've been in and out, but two days."

"Two days! That's practically an eternity! I must be off, I need to file a case report with Lestrade, I need to arrange new-"

"Enough. Bed. Now."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but John spoke first.

"Holmes, look at you. Your eyes are practically closing, I know how tired you are. Your head hurts and you just suffered from some major injuries. Take it slow, you'll be back to your feet in no time, I guarantee it."

"Not quick enough, John, I feel like an old maid cooped up in the flat," he sniffed with discontempt.

"How do you think Mrs. Hudson feels?" John laughed and pushed his friend's shoulder back. Sherlock's spine connected with the mattress and his head hit the pillow. It would only be a matter of time now before his exhaustion caught up with him…

"How bad was it?" Sherlock muttered.

"Not good, Holmes, a bad concussion, some internal bleeding, your heart stopped multiple times, the stab wound went deep. I mean, you practically died in my lap. Greg was about to faint."  
Holmes cracked a smile, "Remind me to get the case file, oh, never mind, you'll forget. I'll remember."

"Okay," John laughed, it felt like old times, "Well, I've started a new story on my blog."

"Great," he rolled his bloodshot eyes, "what are you calling this one?"

"I'm not sure yet," Watson was slowly backing towards the door. Holmes' eyes were closed now, his hands on his chest, his body stretched out, his posture relaxed. John smiled and closed the door lightly.

The poor bloke needed his rest.

It was a lazy day for Watson, one he cherished in his tumultuous life. This was something he rarely got. The sky was actually clear, the sun climbing higher in the sky, the reporters were being held back by strict orders from the doctors to not disturb Sherlock's recovery, tea was boiling on the stove, and the flat was actually clean. Mrs. Hudson was elated downstairs and cooking a meal for her guests above her flat.

John poured himself a cup and sat down at his worn wooden desk. His laptop, a replaced one since his other was destroyed, was open before him. The keyboard was practically calling his name and the fresh, white, new document was just yearning to be written on.

 _John Watson's blog:_

 ** _The Devil's Assassin_**

 _It started out as an ordinary enough case, except for the fact that a mysterious man appeared on our doorstop late on night blubbering over the murder of his female friend off of Vale Street…._

 **Well there we are! Finished! I hope everyone enjoyed it, I know I did! Don't forget to read the Computer Criminal, my other Sherlock story and a prequel to this one! Please leave me a review and if anyone would be interested in reading a third installment down the line? Once again, I don't any content of BBC or Sherlock or the characters.**


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